We want to believe that the air was heavy with regret for both parties. That we were but characters in an F. Scott Fitzgerald short story. That “everything inside was turning over/minutes seemed to last forever/my fault in, a way, for being clever” (‘In Findley’, Sydne Rome, a great song to set against walking along the Seine in slow motion). We want to believe in The One That Got Away.
The truth is, honey, they’re called “the one that got away” for a reason.
It’s not like misplacing your car keys.
Like, “Oh damn, where’s the one? I thought I put him on the hall table when I walked in.”
“Shelly…he’s just the one that got away.”
“Fuck, I guess I’ll take the bus.”
No. They “got away” like a hostage. They made a break for it when your back was turned. While you were answering the door to help Jodie Foster with her investigation, they captured your dog, did not put the lotion in the basket, and screamed for help. In short, they ran away.
And even though you know this, you still want to believe that there will be a great Katherine Heigl movie moment, where you’ll lock eyes across a hospital or dance floor or whatever the fuck, and you’ll find each other again. And until that happens you want to believe in it so badly that you’ll sing in earnest to songs like the Thompson Twins’ “Hold Me Now”, belting, “BOTH OF US SEARCHING FOR SOME PERFECT WORLD WE KNOW WE’LL NEVER FIND!” Your friends will nod but deep down see what you cannot see:
They got away because they wanted to. This shit is over.
I sometimes think about TOTGA. He was a vaguely famous musician and he was beautiful. Once in a while I’ll see something completely ordinary and I’ll think of him. I’ll wonder what the hell happened. Why he one day stopped responding and why I never heard from him again. (My theory is that he got back together with his ex-girlfriend. That or he never existed and that I dreamed the whole thing). The kicker is, I know that I didn’t do anything wrong; I was a Marc Jacobs coat while he was looking for cutlery and you can’t cut a steak with a coat. (What am I talking about?: older entry ‘She’s Just Not That Into You’
To dip a toe in the pool of self-pity is fine. To wade in it, a little silly, but OK. But don’t swim in it and for God’s sake don’t drown. Because you might find someone out there who will run to you rather than from and you won’t want to miss that.
In Findley — Sydne Rome
Hold Me Now — The Thompson Twins
Cry Me A River — Julie London
