In return, the men were unexpectedly kind. I had heard so many horror stories about the emotional capacity of the male species, but these guys told me I didn’t deserve to be treated that way. They shared with me their most treacherous heartbreaks, sent me their breakup albums, warned me which movies to avoid. They gave me advice on how to put myself back together again. They promised me I would be OK. They apologized on his behalf. They gave me closure that my husband couldn’t. They said what he didn’t.
Martin, in sales, kissed me over cocktails. Wooj, in tech, told me I was in the top 3 percent of women he had ever kissed in terms of personality, but the top 10 percent in looks. Liam, a skateboarder, kissed me on my roommate’s couch. Afterward, he said, “I think you just need a big hug, girl,” and held me until my breathing slowed.
And with two days left in January, a writer named Luke kissed me in a dark booth at a Bed-Stuy bar after making me laugh so hard that I thought to myself, “Uh oh.”
January ended. A month later, I had mostly recovered from my kiss bender. But then I kissed a French expat in a hammock on a balcony overlooking the ocean in Costa Rica, where I spent the month of March surfing, writing and learning to slow down. He’s the only man I have kissed since I left New York.
I realized after our night together that I had never once mentioned my husband or the divorce. We talked instead about the waves, the heat and how to say “so good” in French (“si bon”) and Spanish (“tan bueno”) while he traced circles on the inside of my wrist. He knows me only as a tourist who will leave this place once the swell does. I guess I’m no longer defining myself by my marriage. I am, as the kissers promised, OK.
The thing is, when I spent the fall sobbing on all fours, spit pooling onto the rug, it wasn’t because I thought I would never be OK. I was crying because I knew that I would one day be OK — without him. And the “without him” part destroyed me.
Source:
www.nytimes.com
