I know writers tend to romanticize the past, but it’s only because it was truly better. Even with a broken heart it’s better. And I had a big hole in mine. A girl had put it there. A big fist sized hole that wept mud.

The magical thing about your first love is, you think it will never end. Its innocent and naïve. But then it’s gone, and a terrible pain runs in to fill that void.

It was 1998 and I was 21 years old. I had been living with this girl for about a year. We weren’t married, or anything. We had only been playing house. She was a sweet girl, not without faults, but a sweet girl. I was an angry young man. Pompous, tortured and mean. And one day she had enough. She left.

There is something strange about being dumped. It never feels good. Even if the relationship has run its course. Even if you were thinking about leaving her. No one wants to be the dumpee. It’s always better to be the dumper. It’s ego really. It’s just too hard to believe that someone isn’t as obsessed with us, as we are. It hurts to find out you aren’t the center of the universe.

Time stretches after a heartbreak. The days slow to a crawl. There are never enough distractions to keep your mind occupied. It’s you and the sadness. Day after day. “Good morning heartache, what’s new?”

Nighttime is the worst, though. There is always hope when the sun is shining, but with the night comes bleakness. The voices outside your door carry. Noises become amplified. You hear people laughing in the hallway. Everyone appears to have people coming and going, visitors. Not you though. Suddenly everyone you know is busy. Friends have no time for the broken hearted. The gloomy make bad companions. You struggle to keep your dignity, while begging for an invitation whenever you don’t want to spending an evening alone. This is the life of a bachelor. The loneliness crawls on you, whispers in your ear, until you can stand no more.

Just when you’ve almost decided to retire to the sofa for the evening, the restlessness grips you. You become fidgety and on edge. You can’t relax. Instantly you find yourself springing to your feet, grabbing your coat, running your fingers through your hair, and bounding into the cool night air. You start to feel good again. The twinkling lights. The wind in your face. The sudden walk. Maybe you’re almost over you ex. You’ll probably meet someone new, really soon. That checkout girl at the video store always seems to smile at you. And they are still open for another hour. Yep, this solitude is coming to an end! You have options. There is a tiny flame being stoked deep inside you --hope. The promise of a new day. Until “two lovers entwined pass you by, and heaven knows your miserable now.”

~

Every Tuesday, the video store down the street had a deal. You could rent 5 movies, for 5 days, for 5 dollars. For a poor bachelor like me, this was a God send. At the very least I could spend an hour in the video store looking for the 5 perfect films. That’s one hour down, twenty-four more to go.

I spent most of my time in the foreign/arthouse section of the store. Afterall, I was an artist at heart, and I seriously believed the art you consumed was in direct correlation to your intellect.

I’d fill my arms with the films of Jim Jarmusch, Akira Kurosawa, Jean-Luc Godard, and Hal Hartley. I’d carry my selection to the front register and lay my choices before the girl at the counter, so she could bask in my worldly tastes. She was a pale skinned “alternative” girl, with heavy black eye makeup, piercing green eyes, and a nose ring. Emo, but pretty.

I was a conventional looking fellow. I wasn’t cutting edge, but I was an ardent fan of The Cure and The Smiths. I wasn’t a square. I found their melancholy lyrics right in-line with the disposition of my heart. I was tortured and full of sorrow. Seriously, you’d have to search far and wide to find a sadder boy than me. A relationship wasn’t out of the question. After all, opposites attract. This girl and I could have a very meaningful relationship. I mean, stranger things have happened. And there was this tattoo I was considering getting. That is, I was toying with the notion, anyway. A skull with glowing blue eyes. Real edgy.

She looked down at my pile of movies.

“You have interesting taste in movies. Bande a’ part, I’ve never even heard of this,” she said

“Yes, Godard! He’s quite brilliant. French New Wave and all.”

“Oh, do you know French?” she asked.

“I’m brushing up, actually. I’m planning a trip to Paris in the spring. I intend to visit the Sorbonne.”

The voice inside my head was screaming: Shut up Vincente, you idiot! You desperate fake!

She raised her eyebrows. I continued on.

“I plan on starting my novel while I’m there. You know, the whole expatriate thing. Hemingway. Gertrude Stein. Have you ever read, For Whom the Bell Tolls?” I asked.

She kept ringing me up.

“The Unbelievable Truth, I love this movie,” she said.

“Yeah, very existential. Hal Hartley has had a humongous influence on my writing.”

A spark of joy erupted in me. I was scoring points. She came to the last movie in the pile.

“Bloodsport?” she asked. I could see the disdain all over her face. “This movie is disgusting. I hate violence.”

I didn’t know what to say. I loved Blood sport! Ninjitsu. Secret tournament. What wasn’t to like? Frank Dux was the kind of guy you would be proud to call your brother.

“I concur! It’s terrible. Cliché. Chauvinistic. I’m merely viewing it for a treatise I’m writing
on gratuitous violence in film. This movie is one of the top offenders.”

She slid my selection across the counter, repulsed.

I tried to salvage some of my dignity.

“Well, I best be going,” I stammered. “My girlfriend should be getting home from work soon. She had a big shoot today. Being a model and all, you know.”

I hurried to the exit and struggled to pull the door open, never realizing, it was the kind you
push. The dang thing wouldn’t budge. I gave it a good yank. The stack of movies slipped from my arms and slid across the floor like snakes, scattering in every direction. I could feel the counter girl’s contempt burning into the back of my skull. I was a worm. A liar. The lowest of the low.

I bent down to pick up the movies and felt my pants split in the seat. Things had evolved into a sitcom. It was the Three Stooges, only I was alone. Suddenly my butt felt cold. Was the whole world against me? After what seemed like an eternity, I realized I had to push the door to open it . I backed out, tripping over my feet and catching myself.

As I made my way outside and hurried to my car, the cool air slapped me in the face. My embarrassment was unbearable. I was burning with self-loathing. Even the moon seemed to look down and laugh at me.

There was some guy sitting in the parking lot with the engine running. He was wearing eyeliner and had a ring in his lip. He was waiting for the counter girl. He had definitely never read, For Whom the Bell Tolls. He was a boob. I’m sure he smoked clove cigarettes. Probably couldn’t even spell expatriate.

I crawled into my car and threw the movies in the seat next to me. What was I doing? I was pathetic. I thought about what had just happened with the counter girl. I didn’t care. She was beneath me, anyway. She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t pretty at all. I didn’t find her even remotely attractive. Things were going to start looking up. I had a lot going for me.

I put the keys in the ignition and turned the engine over. Thankfully the car started. I made my way back over the hill to my small apartment. It was October and unusually cold. The streetlights glowed down a warm yellow light. Before I knew it, it would be December.