Upon waking, I had dumb banter with Chris that quickly turned nasty. Before bed last night, I scrolled through phone pictures and came across one of me in my favorite Uniqlo sweatshirt, that I had bought for him, but taken as my own. Months ago, in another spat, he wore it away from my apartment and I have yet to get it back. I ended last night by sending him a childish, halfway kidding text of, “I want my sweatshirt back.” I awoke to “what sweatshirt,” and we went back and forth in our domineering ways. It ended with me calling him an asshole because he told me to calm the fuck down and take a chill pill. I had called him petty because he said in giving the sweatshirt back, he wanted glassware, an air pump, his ab roller and shoe rack. All things I could give a shit about and he can have, I just think it’s petty to only bring it up after I mention the sweatshirt I should have bought a replacement of.
So, I call him an asshole after the chill pill comment, he tells me to talk to him when I’m done being a bitch, and I end telling him good luck dating and call him a child. We’re very mature. We have mutually blocked each other and that is how it should stay for a while. He did say he’ll mail the sweatshirt, but I doubt he’ll go through the trouble. I should really just go to Uniqlo.
All the while this text spat took place, I was reading the story of physicist, Richard Feynman’s 1940’s love for a dying woman who became his wife, Arline. She had tuberculosis and they loved each other deeply. He even married against his mother’s and Princeton’s wishes (where he was earning his Ph.D.). The story ends with a letter he wrote to Arline two years after she passed and as I read this, I thought of my current argument with Chris and the enduring love Feynman had for her. Here, this man was still so in love with someone no longer present in his life, but that didn’t seem to matter because she was still very present within him. She seemed to provide so much light and adventure while she lived, that he still experienced her existence and love. It seemed ironic in my current and chosen single status.
“But now I know my darling wife that it is right to do what I have delayed in doing, and that I have done so much in the past. I want to tell you I love you. I want to love you. I always will love you. I find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead—but I still want to comfort and take care of you—and I want you to love me and care for me.”
It is all beautiful and heartbreaking and something I cannot fully understand because I have not experienced the death of a love, only the slow dying of my love for someone. I guess reading of their love made our petty fight seem really fucking dumb and shows me once again, we just don’t get along. What do I actually care of a sweatshirt, ab roller, or being called a bitch? I don’t really. They are only things and words and not everlasting in my heart.