How to Break Your Heart in Another Language
“Look at it this way. You went on a date with him, and he specifically said he had a girlfriend, and you sat there for two fucking hours, listening to him explaining himself to death – either your death or his death, you don’t know, because you stopped listening after knowing that he had a girlfriend – wondering, Oh gosh, why wouldn’t you be better at picking a love interest that resembles love a little more than zero. You looked at the time and it was already past your lunch appointment, wondering, “Why am I still sitting here?”, saying, “Oh, that must be nice” in a language you neither know sufficiently nor understand enough to express anything other than polite and faked kindness. From the gleam in his eyes, you knew he was charmed by your mask, and from the smile on his face, you knew you were doomed. And you repeated time and time again to him, “Oh, that must be nice,” thinking, if you understood him clearly, he was talking about how he met his girlfriend, thinking, why he told you all of this when he specifically said in his bio that he’s looking for something more, thinking, why must it always be me, thinking, why he wanted to hurt you. But weren’t you the one who wanted to be hurt? You always wanted to be hurt in different languages. Remember the last time you talked to a guy whose native language whispered on the canal of your ears and filled them up and up and up until his words turned into tears on your face. And all the while, you kept thinking, “Not anymore.” And all the while, you kept thinking, “Just one more taste.” And all the while, you kept thinking, “How many languages can you spell the words ‘idiot’ and ‘stupid’ and ‘love’ without letting them confuse you. Get it?”
“But what if he loves me back?”
“But what if he loves you back? Of course, you must be thinking about that question until it blows your brain into tiny pieces in rose-colored, heart-shaped cells when you invite him for a second date. You typed in a language you didn’t know and perhaps no longer have the chance to know, thinking, “I hope he’d agree,” wording your phrase, “How are you these days?,” and all those phony words because you never dared to be hated, learning his language because you were not satisfied to be hurt once, but twice, but thrice, in another language. And he agreed despite knowing that all he wanted from you was an exotic female body from an exotic country where he would never leave behind another footstep after his time was up. So, you picked out a nice dress, put on a thinly veiled mask, a light lipstick – talking about lipsticks, when have you ever liked a light lipstick – and you kept hoping, hoping, hoping, “Please let him choose me,” and losing, losing, losing yourself in a make-believe world, a dreamless void, and you know, you already know, that one more step and you will fall off the edge. The vortex had already caught you, too bad. You didn’t think you would be sad and desperate and fucked up in another person’s bed. And you still don’t believe it. After all, you think it is only human to be nice, and give you another million years, you will never think that it is not a human duty to be kind, to be gentle, to know more than breaking the heart of a person. Cruel, I agree, but haven’t you read about people in history? Were you not prepared for this story since the day you were born? It is not a “to be or not to be” question; it has always been a “to kill or not to kill” question. Why would you let that happen?”
