“Are you still dating St. Louis?” she asked. “No,” I said, “we actually just broke up.”
As so exquisitely expressed to a fine friend last night, I have decided that the reason I don’t want to leave St. Louis is because I don’t want to have to come back. It’s like breaking up with a really awesome, long-term boyfriend: You don’t want to get rid of him because you’re afraid to face him after the break-up. It was so good for so long, so you’re terrified of having to see him again when it’s not so good. You’re terrified to see what has changed, what other person has come along to take your place and, ultimately, it’s scary to think of yourself without him. He helped make you who you are, what direction your life has taken, what choices you’ve made and determine how much shit you would put up with. When you couldn’t take it anymore, you searched for a way to get out…moving to another country just happened to be the best option. You said your farewells, kissed him on the cheek and got on a plane, hoping that the next time you saw him would be on the front of a postcard sent by your best friend or in a picture in the international version of USA Today. But seeing him is still painful. Very painful.
