THE FORTUNE OF LOVE
Words by Aimée Ortíz | Artwork by Milena Fagundes
“A Cuban fortune-teller told me when I was going to die.” I froze. As a wave of anxiety hit me I tried to stay casual, like I’m above those things. But given that I have a plan to live forever that is currently working out great, my boyfriend dumping this news was a detour out of my blissful ignorance. I didn’t want to know exactly when, but at the same time, I did. So I asked something that came close to that question, a query to let me know exactly what timeframe I was working with. “Are you dying young or old?” My voice had a little shiver when I asked, I know he noticed. He was facing away from me when he chuckled and replied, “Young”.
I didn’t say anything but I was just wondering in my head, could she be the real deal? “Why would people want to tell you when you’re going to die?” I said completely disgusted with the idea, but at the core, the question was, “how does this strange woman dare to rain on our parade?” “Morbidity attracts customers,” he answered. He has always been protected by his anti-belief shield. Whereas I find solace in faith, he doesn’t. I believe in God. He believes in a higher power. I occasionally read horoscopes to entertain myself. He couldn’t care less about what those stars have to say. He loves astronomy and constellations and documentaries. I remember how happy he was when I bought him a book, from a museum in San Francisco, about how the universe expanded. His life is science-proof, mine is a little bit more mixed.
My anxiety-prone brain went into overdrive: What does it mean he’s going to die young? What is young? 30? 40? 50? What if he dies riding that damn bike he loves so much because he’s not wearing a helmet? What if we die together in an airplane? I hate flying! What if I’m also meant to die young? Is that why I feel like I don’t have a calling? Or a tremendous maternal instinct at 32? But maybe the lady was wrong, I mean, a lot of fortune-tellers are phonies and she was just a lady on the street.
Then, I became a big softy for a couple of days. Everything he did was suddenly sort of magical because, the way I saw it, the time for me to enjoy it was getting shorter and shorter. Suddenly, I welled up when he made coffee and his “bad” habits were not bothersome. The words of this fortune-teller lingered over my head day and night. After a string of bad relationships, and our ups and downs, my boyfriend felt like the most delicious warm shower, like reading a book under the covers on a rainy day, and I felt angry that he could be taken away from me. Then, I moved on to bargaining. I prayed that nothing would happen to him. I made promises about going to church and stopping drinking–you know, the usual things you bargain with. I went through the full grief process before anything ever happened.
“The words of this fortune teller lingered over my head day and night. ”
Then, a year later, death came unexpectedly. We sat down to talk on a balmy summer Sunday, and an hour later our relationship had died. We talked about our problems, but there was this quietness. I wanted to be in the relationship and made it clear, but he was just silent. Maybe waiting, like before, for me to chart the route into the waters. But I needed to see the will in him. In complete desperation, I said, “It all boils down to this: do you want to be with me?” His response was silence followed by a very timid, “Yes.” It wasn’t enough for me, so I asked, “Aren’t you afraid to lose me?” Deep silence. For 5 years I tried to teach this man how to love me, without a second thought. And here, his doubts were showing like tattoos on his skin. He spoke about his insecurities, his worries, both connected and disconnected from our relationship, but there was never an ‘us.’ My heart was broken for me, but also for him.
It is way more difficult when there aren’t any villains to hate. There’s a weird mix of love and gratitude when a relationship that just couldn’t work dies. It’s maybe even more heartbreaking.
We thanked each other for everything, and then we hugged. I kissed his shoulder and his cheeks as some sort of protection for his future. He gave me back the money I’d set aside for an apartment we had planned on moving into. As it tends to happen, I didn’t want my relationship to end, but it seems like he didn’t want to stay, and through the transformation, I put into focus things I wanted before his needs.
The fortune–teller was somehow right. For me, he died young. A handsome, sweet 30-year-old man. No longer mine. About to explore the world even further with all that he had learned with me.
For five years, we shared our lives–and his dog Max. We traveled from Florida to New Orleans in an RV, went to 100-year-old movie theaters, traveled through Italy, hiked a vineyard, played tennis, made short films together, and meshed our lives. We built a life, but we also built walls and disappointments that we couldn’t demolish.
Then, grief came knocking. I would cry for 10 seconds, would be okay, and then start crying again. I buried my dreams and expectations, our future children’s names, the places we were going to go, the “plus one” events we would no longer attend. But there’s something I wasn’t expecting at all. When my life got turned inside out that Sunday afternoon, it felt like everything was left suspended in mid air, stuck but still somewhat there. A few months later, it felt like everything came crashing at lightning speed to the ground.
I’ve always been good at knowing when to take a bow and say goodbye. I believe in looking out for the signs. During my last Christmas working at the company where he and I met, a glitch in a system left me out of Secret Santa. I didn’t receive a gift. I knew my time there was over. It was the same as the undoing of this five-year relationship. First, I lost the tennis balls he gave me. Then, an eager player decided it was time to change the grip tape he had so lovingly wrapped. I went for Thanksgiving to my aunt’s house and left the jacket I bought on the last trip we ever took together. The restaurant where we met closed. We used to go have #whiskeywednesdays there to talk and get to know each other better. We were friends before one of those Wednesdays he kissed me. Just another sign of things wrapping up, whether I liked it or not. All those little loving gestures are lost to time and our memory.
As I sip on the last bottle of wine I bought when we were in Cinque Terre (one last thing we were supposed to do together when we moved into our new place, but ran out of time), I still believe it was the right choice. Love alone can not uphold a relationship. It needs more. A reliable language for when things aren’t right, a strong foundation for life's earthquakes, and a willingness to push for goals as a unit and individually. Chris Rock said it best: Sometimes you’ll be the lead singer and sometimes you’ll play the tambourine. And when you play that tambourine, you better be the best tambourine player there is (paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it).
Still, I wish him all the good fortune in the world. I know deep within me that the way I’ve been changed by his mere existence in my life is undeniable. He’s a part of me as much as I am a part of him. I pray that his life is long and full of joy that he can share with whomever he chooses, even if he simply chooses himself. I hope that the fortune teller got it wrong. If not about us, at least about him.