Love and the Phantom Queen of Suburbia

Honey Bee

I dreamed about you, Honey Bee, last night, the first time in years, remembering the sordid events of our three attempts at romance.

First time, he was just your fiancé and I your dirty secret. You compared him to granola and me to Coco Puffs. Though less appealing, you voted him the healthier choice. Kept you out of trouble. I let you do what you wanted, though I did ask you to bleach your hair for me. Loved you better blonde. Shallow, I know.

You wrote me poetry, and I gave you a dozen black roses for Valentine's Day. But the secret got out —someone from your Jehovah's Witness temple saw us, I think, and ratted on you.

No more buying matching baby-pink satin, black lace trimmed panties with inexplicable tiny pockets on the butt, maybe big enough for a single condom. No more watching you try on dresses, the black lace one with the flesh-toned liner that made you look utterly naked.

No more parties at your dad's apartment, drinking so much wop it felt good to stand in my socks in the snow.

The temple told you to break up with me and marry your boyfriend, and quit your job, where we had met. The alternative was ex-communication. You complied.

Take two: hubby knew about me; "cool" with it but still kept showing up unexpectedly to bring you home; the stress and tension I didn't need. Single parenting was more than enough to wrestle with, and the added drama was just one more complication. It started taking a toll on my ability to care for my daughter.

Then, our third and final act. You called the night I was released from the psych unit. I was home alone, daughter sent to my parents until I was well enough. I felt so empty. One embrace, and you asked if I wanted to go to the bedroom, your caresses barely there in the dark.

Later, you moved in. I got better, and we got worse, 'til I booted you out then celebrated with drinks on the vampire DJ. I remember telling him I got the okay to quit my anti-depressants the same day we split. "The last time I broke up with someone was the day I started anti-depressants," he'd replied, impressed at my resilience.

I think more than that, I was selfish with you, never content with just you romantically, once I'd met J. He was great for soul-stealing kisses and free drinks, but it never went anywhere. We still talk occasionally, but that ship lies long sunken in the deepest of ocean trenches.

Your sister came into my work the other day, and I wondered about you, your forays into gender identity exploration. I'm sorry. I could've been more supportive. I was just hurt you sent your new-to-try-out, gender-neutral pronouns to me in a mass email, like I was just one among many, and not the former lover who inherited the pizza stone and the good spatula. Still have them to this day.

The dream...we sat beside a hot tub. You'd promised me a wet and slippery, amorous afternoon. You clipped my toenails then ignored me. Nursing versus passion. What ever happened to making out in 70's-themed bars full of lava lamps, and kissing hard in empty elevators?

You helped me get my head right, researched all my medications for me, organized my old CD's, and kept the apartment clean. Once I was stable, however, that wasn't what I needed. In all honesty, I don't think I ever gave you anything you needed, either.