by Giselle Renarde
I've wanted to write this letter for ages. I'll tell you why I haven't: because every time I've said even the slightest word to you since we broke up, all you've heard was, "I want to get back together."
I don't want to get back together. I don't want to go out for coffee. I don't want dinner. I don't want to fuck you. It's over. Really. It is.
You know I have a girlfriend now. Sweet and I have been together more than five years. I'm happy with her. Remember all the times I told you I was queer and you were all like, "No way. If you were a lesbian, you wouldn't be so good in bed." That's only one of your dickishly entitled remarks that stands out in my mind. Oh, and when you criticized your sister's foster-daughter for calling her "Mom" because they weren't biologically related? You could be such a fuckwad sometimes.
But I loved you. Stupid, because you were married the entire ten years of our relationship. Not that you pulled the wool over my eyes. I knew you were married from the moment we met. The difference was that you were fifty years old. I was... what, eighteen? Nineteen? Not a kid, no, but still a young woman looking for a father figure.
Audrey and Lawrence, the complete collection of stories about our affair.
What hasn't hit home with you is that the book's called "The Complete Collection" for a reason: our relationship is over. Done. The fact that you still weasel your way into my building to leave Christmas and birthday gifts outside my door is, frankly, a little creepy.
One year, I sent you a thank you email. Just to be civil. Just to show you I was still human. Except, instead of hearing "thank you," you heard, "I want you." That's why I don't acknowledge your gifts anymore. I'd prefer if you focused your love and attention on some other girl--maybe your wife?
Ahh, your wife... I think about her a lot. Dreamed the other week that I was trying to get her into bed, but you kept cockblocking me. Bastard. She was a pretty pixie, from what I recall--younger than you, older than me. But she didn't want you, did she? Not for sex. Nope.
my first book: Imelda the bisexual art patron who takes up with the young ballerina, Ondine. I'm endlessly fascinated by this woman, your wife. Maybe you should try to be more fascinated by her. You are married to the woman, after all.
Ultimately, I want you to be happy. With someone else. Not with me. I feel a special compassion for you because I spent ten years of my life wanting you when I could never fully have you. Now the tables have turned. You want me. I've moved on.