Stranger, then fiction

Smooth, like silk on ice. So polished and polite, manners that evoked a gentler time of ladies and gentlemen, of cocktail parties, easy laughter, joie de vivre and cool commaraderie. You never needed to work a room, people flocked to you like the last oasis in the fading desert of the local music scene.  Somehow, without even trying, you captivated the audience without raising your voice. Calm measured tones and quiet cool. Except for your laugh. Your laugh. Loud, melodic, rarely won so it offered a grand prize for those who managed to make you laugh.  I adored you and I made you laugh, delighting our friends. We were a happy couple and since I avoided the spotlight, I was content to watch you shine. I was satisfied being your "straight man" to let the others share your laughter.

That was then.

Are you still smooth? Are your manners among your friends still polite and so gloriously retro. Do they still flock to hear your stories, bask in your smile, delight in your laugh? You asked me to move in, share your space, live and laugh together. The idea was beneficial to both of us, saving money, sharing resources, laughing together through life. But something wasn't quite right.  

The space you made for me was a closet. Literally a closet, part of a closet to be honest. A few shelves in a space still occupied by your life before me. You wanted me to fit anything I wanted to contribute to our new time together into a few shelves of a closet. Clothes, books, music, shoes, hobbies, food, coats, hats, vitamins, toiletries and toys, into three shelves in a partially cleared closet. A red flag of humongous proportions but I thought, I hoped, you just needed time to adjust. When you began leaving me at home when invited out by our friends, I didn't understand and you explained you were concerned about my sensitive health. It was true, I do get sick easily and need more rest than most.  It seemed like genuine concern and consideration. 

My mistake.

Your cocktail party cool was as retro as your attitude about coupling. Your word was final. Your decisions, many made when I was traveling to visit friends or family, was to throw out anything you deemed unworthy to occupy your space. Clothes of mine you didn't like, kitchen tools you didn't understand, music you didn't think I should listen to, sheets of the wrong color, shoes, too flat, too high, too ugly. On the rare times you came to these decisions when I was in the state, they merely ended up broken beyond repair. Accidents, after all, do happen. When I complained or confronted, you laughed. Told me over and over to "...learn to pick your(sic) battles." Until I gave up talking, walked away screaming obscenities.  You considered the matters closed, I considered them open wounds. You never let them heal. Opened over and over with new layered on top of old. Maybe you thought I would eventually break and follow your commands but I wasn't broken when I moved in and now, that I am walking away, with no screaming, no obscenities and the wounds prepped and cleaned and ready to heal, here is one thing, one piece of your advice I have taken to heart. 

I will, for now and for always, pick my battles.  

Good luck and good bye, stranger.