Long Distance Breakup

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I kissed another boy on Christmas Eve, the first unfamiliar kiss in four years. I don’t remember the kiss so much as the smirk on his lips as he leaned forward, a smirk that knew all variables of the night would lead to this. We were young, single, and let the jazz, wine and the bizarre ambience of Christmas in Beijing do the work for us. When finished, we eased back into conversation without missing a beat.

Maybe it was the apparent meaninglessness of this brief encounter that heightened my senses. I could really grasp the stem of the wine glass in my hand, feel the gravity of its curves, and savor the lingering taste of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon and Chinese cigarettes. I’d grown up.

I had ended that four year relationship just two days before Christmas Eve. Of my ex, I’d always said he was the type of guy I’d marry in a heartbeat if we’d met at thirty instead of twenty-one. Our first kiss was snuck under the staircase of our rowdy American college dorm, collapsing in a heap of laughter and not giving a thought to the drunken revelry around us. We kissed, as young people did, as if it were going out of fashion.

The breakup was more of anaffair, carried out via Skype between Beijing and New York, words feeding into a cold and unresponsive microphone, making the whole thing seem scripted.

The Chinese-American in me said: “I guess you’re just more American than I could ever be.”

The Chinese-American in him said: “Well, it’s not as if there’s just a switch I can pull to become more Chinese.”

It was a conversation we’d had many times before―at college, before graduation, before moving together to New York City, on the train home to Brooklyn. I’d always gloss over the words with unbearable levity, “I’m moving to China one day! It’s my dream! Will you move with me?” He’d always respond with unwavering optimism. “We’ll find a way.” to China.” My voice was small against New York’s rumbling subways, so much louder than the shiny new train cars in Beijing. The more I said it, the more remote China felt.

Up until seeing me off at the airport to Beijing, he’d often say out of the blue: “Don’t forget me.” I’d laugh it off like it was the silliest statement in the world.

We had toast, eggs, and bacon, a classic American-style breakfast at the airport. I’m not actually sure we kissed. I only remember stepping back from his embrace, remember tracing the outline of his elegant figure, his eyes, nose, lips, memorizing features because we both knew it may well be the last time.

“Don’t forget me.” We blinked back tears and clung to promises. I was only going for a year, a year to get China out of my system, a year later we were going to travel the world together. A year and no more.

The first month in Beijing was a whirlwind of activity: new job, new friends, new apartment, new life, new work hours that usually ended in the AM. In the mornings, I’d carry him around on my laptop while flitting about―eat breakfast, put on makeup, or wail about how wonderful and horrible this new world was. In turn, he talked about a life in New York that sounded like a memory, that in a parallel universe, still fluttered with life, a life I’d leaped from like a moving train.

I forgot his birthday the second month in China. I’d burned holes in my project calendar and memorized deadlines by heart, but somehow couldn’t see meaning in the numbers that we’d celebrated for four years.

“So that’s it, then.”

By the fourth month, we knew the one year stint in China was unrealistic, a light at the end of a tunnel that we’d fashioned out of desperation. I was staying. He wasn’t coming.

“Well, I just want to say, thanks for four great years. Thanks so much.”

“That’s it,” proved as easy to say as it used to be to hop onto a train to Queens instead of Brooklyn.