It occurs to me that I never, in all our correspondence or during the relationship, promised to be faithful to him, although physically, I absolutely was. I never so much as smooched anyone. Obviously, in mind and heart, I roved, but only once, and in desperation, near the breaking point of hope, and towards aesthetic ends.
He, on the other hand, did promise to be faithful, and characterized himself as such, in writing.
He accused me of "retributive behavior when things don't work out the way [I] wanted." Well, it's true, my behavior has been retributive. That sucks, no one likes it, not even me, but I'm distraught, terribly, horribly distraught, and I can't seem to control myself. One of these days I will be able to drop it, but I can't yet. You know why, because it's not just about "things" "not work[ing] out the way [I] wanted." It's because things did not work out the way he promised.
If he had framed himself as a chest-scratching rambling cowboy from the beginning, it would be one thing. But he didn't. This was the Grand Passion I had always wanted.
He would gaze at me, in the beginning, with those sweet, imploring blue eyes and wrinkly forehead in utter adoration. I remember that look. And he said the sweetest, sweetest things.
O ladies: beware, O beware, that look. And beware, beware, those promises.
An astrologer told me recently, the greater the idealization, the greater the disappointment. And there you have it.