We sat on barstools in the front door of the coffee shop, taking in the warmth of the sun like cats on a porch. We looked at each other and out the windows and at the people that filled the room. Not all words are created equal and sometimes they just don’t sound right. The conversation had a sluggish start with small talk but we got to the heart of the matter quickly. This was the second conference call about the end of our relationship. And really, it was the final one. At the end of our conversation, we signed on the dotted line, agreeing to go our separate ways.

In this particular case, the business meeting analogy holds true, in that, the reason for throwing in the towel on dating was pretty straight forward. I don’t have hard feelings. There wasn’t a giant flare of emotions about inadequacies and failings. Her desires didn’t seem to be a personal attack. The numbers didn’t add up on her side, plain and simple. If life is partly composed of objective goals then we weren’t meant for a long term business deal.

I have nothing but nice things to say about her. But kind words and great conversation can’t always fill the needs of others. Her strategy doesn’t align with mine. Or something. Not something profound, but consequential, nonetheless. We all have to make decisions about our lives and the timeline in which we do so is different for everyone. I wish I could explain it with more clarity, but she just wasn’t feeling it – coupled with her future desires to have kids and a yard while I see a future with Thailand, gin and soda and the life of an expat swimming in the Indian Ocean.

As we talked, I couldn’t help but think about how the layers in her eyes were beautiful – a dark blue on the outside that grew intense and lighter as it travelled in – I want those eyes to wake up looking at mine in Phuket. And her personality. And well…everything that I know about her, I want there. And that’s where the rejection kicked and still kicks hardest. I don’t have any answers for that. I don’t have any leftover cocaine.

I gave her one last kiss before I walked away. I don’t know why I wanted a smooch or if it was OK with her. And maybe that was unfair and unnecessary. But what is a final kiss if only the last dollop of potential on the what-could-have-beens and wishful thinking?

In the past, my relationships never ended on such adult terms. They almost always broke down with some sort of bitterness followed by silence. So, maybe I desired the kiss because I hoped the way we ended doesn’t happen again – instead, it would end with  hatred for the other person, to make it easier. Or maybe I wanted to cherish the civil manner of which our ultimate demise came about, like a connoisseur of mature human experience. But whatever the logic, I am sure at my core, I went for the kiss because I know intimacy is a good experience, and in that moment, I didn’t have to face the rejection. Instead, I was in the middle of a fucked up dream that people have when they turn 30.

Kicking off my year with some healthy introspection about my first adult relationship in 6 years is probably a grown up way to figure it all out. I call this task “Adulting”. At least, that’s what I am telling myself. I am trying to react like an Olympian who falls down and gets back up with grace and goes forth as if nothing happened. I want to bounce back in a thoughtful way so not to lose perspective. Or I just want to have a hand to hold and these words are just that.

This is the shit that our parents were struggling with while we were out on playgrounds claiming girls had cooties and getting picked last for any sport mattered. The pressures are weird now and the time seems to be running out. The “adulting” is a tough pill to swallow. When did all this grown-up shit start piling up? Shame on me for not knowing it was going to happen. Who would have thought the future mattered? Ending a relationship because of the alignment of our futures when we are young is almost as bad as talking about investment portfolios, on St. Patrick’s Day, while drinking green beer. Both are now on my resume. But that’s life at 30 years old as far as I can see. Business as usual, so they say. And it probably only gets more weird from here.