I just ended that one with the Hispanic boy. I’m always thinking,
sexually, mentally, physically, whatever, there’s an end,
and that makes it less. Just less. Even if it’s just
that one of you dies. It makes it less.
My last one, you know, he’d go down
stairs and play the piano, anytime he was happy,
or angry, or sad, or bored, or whatever, he’d go downstairs
to the piano, it was instead
of conversation. Which was fine,
because he was talented. He brought the baby
grand home from his parents.
Downstairs, the vibrations,
from that baby grand, were really something.
The neighbours were fine with the vibrations,
we got on well, both sides
and they just knew if he was playing the piano he was angry,
or happy, or sad, or bored, or whatever. You know pianos die,
eventually? You replace the hammers
and strings and keys and pedals, and the only thing left
is the shell. So economically, he brought the baby one
back from his parents. But no conversation, it took seventeen years
to figure that out. Well, ten. The other seven
I was just cruising. We stayed together
for the house depreciation. It was fine, he’s talented,
that’s part of the attraction. But a bad debt
is harder to get away from than a bad ex.
There’s always an end. Sexually,
mentally, physically. Whatever.
1 February 2014