Not Dogs

I saw my ex today. We sniffed eachother's butts and walked away...

I mean, that's how it would've been if we were dogs. Oh, how I wish we were dogs! Instead, we chatted. The conversation got off to a bit of a rocky start. He never was much of a conversationalist, even with the advantage of his low Georgia drawl.

"You're here." He said, almost questioningly.

Not "hi", not "how've you been?". Although - much to my relief and surprise - nothing racist, loud, or inappropriate.

It had been four years since the last time we'd seen one another. Yet, there was a familiar staleness between us while we stood there talking. I never had a name for it while we were together. Although, I realized today, it was pure disconnection. I can't name a time where I ever truly loved him as much as I said I did. Instead of feeling rage, curiosity, or longing; or any of those typical feelings we tend to have around ex-lovers, I felt at peace. I felt closure.

Grey strands had appeared in his dark brown hair, but he's still the same. His changes happened outside. Mine did not. I've done a lot of growing up since my 18-year-old self fell head over heels for the first man she'd ever had sex with. I have my own boundaries. I have my own ambition. I am confident alone, and together with my husband. I'm not searching and trying to be a part of someone anymore. Finally, I am someone.

The parting handshake felt like I was extending my hand over a continent to meet his. It wasn't a bad talk, but I still wish I could've just sniffed his butt instead.