I found this in my drafts from January 2010 and decided maybe it was all right for it to see the light of day now, now when I am not way too broken up over losing a friend to work on another continent than I should be.
What exactly does one do with a man whom she doesn’t want to marry, but doesn’t ever want to be away from? I’ve been brooding on this for nigh on three weeks now, ever since I first started preparing for his leave-taking, and yet I’m no closer to anything resembling an answer. If I arrive at an even somewhat satisfying conclusion, I’ll be sure to report back. I think however, dear readers, that I’m effed. I’ll never know in any planned, cleanly explicable sense, but I’ll be living the answer for the rest of my mortal days.
His name is Marco, and for purposes of privacy I shan’t expand on that. While I’m sure that he’s known to many women as “that sonofabitch,” “el hijo de puta que me engañó,” “that cad,” and “that inconsiderate motherfucker,” to me, he’s the flatmate par excellence, the amazing friend, the man who’s not exactly a brother but not exactly not one, either; he’s the best platonic date to the movies, a phenomenal cook, a shoulder to cry on and a real life modern Renaissance man. I guess under other circumstances I could’ve been in love with him, but he’s turned out to mean too much to me for that to happen, if that makes any sense at all. Marco filled a hole in my heart that’s been aching and empty for pretty much all of my life, and now that he’s gone, I walk around wondering what I do with the fact that I’ll probably never again walk down the street to a grab a drink with him on a week night, come home and cook dinner together, crack a bottle of wine while we wait for things to cook and later sit in companionable silence, both of us reading our own books. All this pre-emptive longing for someone I never dated and, even if I had the opportunity, probably wouldn’t. It’s bizarre, but I think I finally understand now the way in which grown up people miss the siblings to whom they were closest once they mature and fly away from the nest to build treehouses and compose flocks that have nothing to do with the shared experience of a common family. I love him, in the purest sense of the word. Marco didn’t mean to, and I don’t think he knows that he did it, but he fixed me, and happily, it’s stuck.
Post note: I’m okay without Marco, but I’ve never stopped missing sharing silly little daily things with him: a coffee, a walk, or a great song. Good friends are hard to come by, and he’s certainly one of the better ones. This is for my favorite Italian, with lots of love.