The Itch You Can't Scratch

They say you never forget your first love.

I wish I could say this is not the case for me. But here I am, the enlightened age of 44, and still finding my mind wandering to what my life might be like now, if Rick were still in it.

As I prepare for my first date in nearly three years, I think about Rick all the more. I see him everywhere—in the mug we bought in Spain, in my love for Jazz music, in the merlot wine bottles we drank from in France that I now use to grow my green onions in. Rick loved to collect the bottles of his favourite merlot wine. And here I am, still using the bottles to contain my plant collection. New life grows from my old one.

I chastise myself for thinking of Rick so much ten years later, but no relationship since has measured up to the tumultuous and exciting life I shared with him. I try not to be hard on myself for missing him today. I remind myself that I have built quite a nice life here in New York. I have two massive dogs, and great friends from work, who visit every Wednesday and Saturday for book club. Lately, however, book club has turned more into wine nights. Even still, the ladies know much more about postmodernism than we do about wine; we still find ourselves at the wine store at 10pm asking for the cheapest wine with the highest percentage. Old habits die hard.

Last Saturday, instead of discussing Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle, we took a quiz on Bright Cellars, and their algorithm matched us to assorted wines to match our particular taste. Thank goodness Bright Cellars can offer us some better recommendations than our usual picks. My box of wine arrived this morning—four bottles from around the globe, delivered to my doorstep. As excited as I was to dive into the wine, I quickly learned that I would not be opening any bottles tonight. One cancellation text after another flooded the group chat. Something came up with the kids. Absolutely wild. I’ll fill you in later. One, two, three, four. They all fell like dominos. I get it. They have to take their kids to sleepovers, swimming lessons, and math tutoring. Only, I do not really get it. I do not know what it is like to have a family like theirs to come home to.

After checking the texts, I reluctantly made the decision to fill up my free Saturday night with a date night. I responded to a message from a man named Eric, from the over-forties dating app I lacklusterly browse through on occasion. My last internet date was years ago, although it feels like yesterday.

I am not particularly excited about my date night. I do not know what to expect with dating. I keep my expectations low, and smile when I think about how it will feel to return to my cozy couch and sweatpants. I head out into the night, covered in dog hair, hoping Eric is not allergic.

When I walk into the restaurant to meet Eric, I realize I have been catfished. Rick is sitting at the bar. I could recognize that man anywhere. All my suppressed anger and heartache boils up to the surface and I retract my having missed him earlier today.

“Wow,”he reaches out for my hand, “you are looking more beautiful than ever.”

I choke on my gum, before uttering back, “you’d better have more than that.”

Rick smiles. He is calm, and he knows I am not going to walk out. I have too much curiosity. He walked away from our life together a decade ago with little explanation, and maybe now he is here to explain—to provide closure. Rick is the itch I could not scratch for ten years.

“You know people usually catfish strangers, not their ex-wives,” I comment.

“Well, I can understand your shock with the catfish, people aren’t supposed to look better than their photos,” he winks.

I shake my head. Of course Rick catfished me. Honesty was never his strong suit. Rick has the same charisma and cool composure he had when we were a couple of twenty-somethings travelling through South America together. He orders my favourite appetizers and two glasses of merlot. I take both glasses. Sitting with him now feels as though no time has past. We are laughing so much, our cheeks are tired and rosy. Dare I say, I find myself reciprocating his juvenile flirtation.

“Please know”, Rick whispers, “not a day goes by where I don’t think about you and want you back. Please forgive me.”

My smile subsides. “I do forgive you, but don’t mistake that for deserving my forgiveness. I do it for myself so I do not have to hold onto that anger. Tell me Rick, where do your wife and kids think you are right now?”

His facial reaction makes me pity him, and he answers honestly, “business trip.”

“Yeah… I remember,” I sigh. “Rick you can’t keep sabotaging the lives of those who love you every time you have a life-crisis. You know what’s better than an affair? Therapy.”

Rick smirks, and nods. We have a long embrace. I feel his tear wet my shoulder, and I thank him for the food. I leave him with the bill even though he didn’t have any of the food. It was the best date it could have been. I feel relief, a sense of closure, and deeper forgiveness for the past. Without the past, I would not have my present life.

I look forward to stepping into my apartment, to be greeted by my giant dogs, my plants, and my box of wine. When I arrive at my apartment, I am greeted with much more. My friends are sitting on the steps, books in hand, and an assortment of wine bottles from Bright Cellars. We try my bottle first. I pour the ladies a Folk & Fable merlot. It is a bold dark red, with a smooth feel, and light finish. I let the wine sit on my tongue before swallowing, and embrace how full my life is. New life grows from my old one, and I am grateful that this is the family I come home to.