Dear boyfriend, I’m leaving…

Hey, I was there this morning when you left for work. It so happens that, if you are reading this, it means that I’m not there anymore. By now, I’ll be taking a cappuccino at Heathrow Airport Terminal 5, waiting for the flight that’ll take me back to Brazil. The following pages were taken from my personal journal. That little black book that I bought so I could write more. That one I told you’d become my first book, remember? I guess you don’t. While I was paying for it, I’ve heard over my shoulder your voice asking: “Are you finally writing it or is it just another silly idea that you will let unfinished inside a drawer?”

I haven’t made much use of it, I give you that. Besides the numerous love letters that I wrote on it, all of them to you. Not so numerous, there’s no time for lies now, I know how many they were: nineteen; And this is the the number twenty: my final letter.

In case these pages fall into the wrong hands, I would kindly ask you - unwelcoming guest - to read this letter with an open heart and a thick accent. The second worst mistake that you could possibly make, after sticking your nose in matters that doesn’t concern you, would be reading - from this point forward - this immigrant’s love letter with Sir David Attenborough’s english accent. Oh no! That would be rudely unacceptable. Not that there’s something wrong with him, it’s just that we are, let’s say, different. I’m certainly younger, probably taller. Definitely not a Lord! I’m not nearly as successful as he is… oh, that’s a lie! and there’s no time for lies; in fact, success and I have never been introduced. To make it simple, curious reader: I’m a man who has a flight to catch within few hours because he is breaking up with his boyfriend. Yes, I’m gay. So just don’t think of Sir David Attenborough while reading my written voice. Now, shush! I have a point to make…

This was all meant to be a grown up talk. We would have a seat, grab each other’s hands - or maybe just a cushion or a cup of coffee -, I would start talking and you, patiently, would wait for your moment to speak. Until the moment I would tell you that I’m leaving. And I’m leaving because I’ve had enough of you: enough of your coaching sessions of a better life; of your improvised ideas and adventurous travels; enough of you stupid language courses; enough of you! To which, I’m sure, you would respond throwing onto the floor whatever you had in your hands (I’m hoping it’s a cushion) and scream.

Oh, how you love screaming. You usually point out how loudly I talk; but you, when it gets to the point of no return, you abandon your quiet-controlled manners - like a gentle autumn breeze - and show the power hidden underneath, the storm, that unquiet and uncontrolled thunder that announces the arrival of winter. Then, furious that I’ve undermined your language skills, you would curse in Italian. Offend me in French. Switching to English and reminding me how smart you are. Around you, destruction! In a room full of things we’ve both bought, your fury would’ve surgically picked up to destroy only items that belonged to me.

Or maybe that’s just how I’d like to picture it, like a cheesy Spanish movie, full of loud people like me, but wearing a green jacket in a scene full of red scenography.

Or, maybe, your approach would be more mature. “Yes, I agree”, you would reply coldly. And drawing a kind smile, you’d wish me luck and compliment me on my new glasses. Although, I don’t wear glasses, but at that moment I ought to be wearing glasses - thick, black, squared glasses -, a white shirt and a slim black tie. That day would have been grey, as it always is in London, and you would be coming back from your tennis practice. But this is just how I picture it: apart from languages and traveling, you’ve never shown much of an interest for sports.

I won’t lie and tell you that my departure wasn’t planned. That I haven’t been thinking about this letter for a long time. But how would I sit down in front of you, instead of writing it down - if a writer is who I am -, and risk that the most important moment of my life, that redemption scene in a book… How would I take the risk of it being boring?

Anyway, I guess I’m breaking up with you before you do it yourself. I’m probably scared of failure. So I guess I’ve won, haven’t I?

Dear reader, are you still there? What do you think, does anybody really win in a relationship? Is the winner the first to, standing on their feet, reach the exit door, although hurt and caring a lot of things? And, for things, I mean all the loot we carry when it ends. You know what I mean, don’t you? Oh, I’m so sorry. Maybe you are a university student that works as a part time cleaner; and, accidentally, you have found this letter while cleaning my ex-boyfriend’s apartment. I’m deeply sorry, I was being too harsh. Love is beautiful and you will be really good at it, I’m sure. Just a quick question, can you check if the kitchen drawer is fixed? I’ve been asking him forever to get it fixed…

I wish somebody had told us at the beginning what we’re signing up to. That the first date sparkles would slowly fade away. That, within years, we’d start interrupting each other in public, judging each other; Elbowing one another, afraid of embarrassment. And then, the lies: I would lie when you ask If you are gaining weight. And you would lie that you liked my new hair style. That I am still beautiful and that you love me forever. But how long is forever?

Well, it’s getting late, I have to call a cab and I feel that I haven’t made my point quite yet. Why don’t you try asking your friend Tonia about that, she seems to always have nice strong opinions - at least about me - maybe she knows something about the eternity of love. But as I was telling our reader above, love is also beautiful, so I won’t go there because it can’t be all ashes.

By the way, dear reader, if you are his friend Tonia, you are not so dear any more. Mind your own business, for God’s sake!!!

But let me say a few words in regards of the beauty there is in love. Do you still remember our first date? I took you to that Andy Warhol exhibition that was going on in our city in Brazil. I guess Andy Warhol is the perfect way to start a love story, isn’t it? As queer and chaotic as us both. On that day, I told you my first lie.

I recall telling you that Bukowski was my favourite writer, just to impress you; which wasn’t completely a lie, as I do read Bukowski. It’s simply that my favourite thing to read is that American cartoon about a boy who has a tiger teddy-bear for best friend; which is not so impressive for a first date. And I do like Warhol’s art, I just don’t love it, as I told you. As you should’ve suspected, half of the things I told you on that day were made up and improvised; Come on!, who would’ve been so passionate about red cans of soup to talk about them for a good forty minutes and with a smile on their face? I guess that was love.

That red soup can speech has made my life really complicated, afterwards. You’ve got me for my birthday a big framed Warhol’s poster of one. That big red tower hanging on the wall of my bedroom, haunting the corner of my eyes anywhere I go like a traffic light. And then, because I loved it so much, for Christmas you’ve got me a t-shirt, same can of soup, but stamped on a red t-shirt: RED! And God knows how awful I look in red; a walking, clumsy, flushed giraffe with a can of soup on its chest. But I happily told you that I liked it, and that was also love.

After that day we were boyfriend and boyfriend. A beautiful long journey that made me follow you to different cities, firstly; then regions; and, soon after, countries. And look at us today, living our best arguments in the heart of London. Who would have thought so?

And, here and then, you would ask me about that book I said I would write. “Where is the writer you told me you are?That guy that once told he enjoys art, good music and reading bohemian poetry while smoking cigars”. As I grew older and moved to London, the ray fever triggered my breathing allergy to a level that smoking cigars stopped being an option, even for a pretender like myself. Your voice, anyway, echoed at the back of my head like my own conscience. I know, at the end of the day, you wanted to see the best of me. And the matter with the lier is himself, he is his worst enemy. All the stories, that he so much likes to tell, are just a best edited version of the life he wanted to have. And isn’t that what a writer is, a lier?

I have written things, not a book, but few scratches of things that had potential to become something bigger. I’ve tried to show them to you, but living by your side, seeing that you expected so much of me, made me draw back. And, yet, at the same time, seeing myself not expecting anything from you and - surprisingly - getting so much, was more than I could chew.

Hey you, reader! I’m aware that I told you not to think of him anyhow. But do you think that Sir David Attenborough has had any confidence issues throughout his life? Probably not. It takes a certain level of pragmatism to become who he is, I guess. What do you think? I’m at this point getting emotionally attached to you, dear reader. I’m here just hoping you are really there - I don’t care anymore if you are his friend Tonia or not - just, please, be there with your long nose buried in my letter. Sorry if I was rude before. The cab should be here any time soon now and I’m getting nervous.

Let me be honest with you: I admit, I’m a quitter. I will be thirty two soon and I haven’t achieved anything important in my life. Our relationship was all that I had: a lifetime summarised in nineteen love letters. And even that I’m quitting right now.

You know what is funny? I have shown the black book to a friend, who has shown it to another friend that works for a movie studio. And they’ve bought the book! Can you believe it? I’ve got twenty thousand dollars in my bank account. TWENTY GRAND!!! That’s ridiculous! They are saying it could become a movie soon. A movie!!! Are you happy for me? I wish that you were. Who do you think would be playing you? I will just make it clear that I don’t want Sir David Attenborough to narrate it. Although, that would be so nice. Do you think he would accept it?

Oh, the cab is here! One last thing, this is the final chapter. If you have read until this point, you are, then, the first person who have read my first book. And that’s all that matters.

I love you.

Tacio