I move from home. I go to school for a long time. I move from a place I thought as my second home. In between these phases I meet a man. I leave him behind. At this point I know I am not prepared to give up my career for a man. I would like to choose the man over the career.
I eventually move to the suburbs and settle into a flat with two Italians. I guess I was trying to grasp at familiarity as I had lived with an Italian prior to moving. I was forced to leave the job I initially had and got another one at the pub across the road from my flat. There were no positions available for my qualifications so they ask if I don’t mind having a non-management position (waitress). I did mind, just a little.
I get my first paycheck from the pub. We are paid weekly. This is the kind of budgeting I am capable of. Then, I look at how much The Man takes. Damn The Man.
Guests and staff don’t know what to make of me. I am nor white nor black. I speak two different languages fluently with no accent. I have piercings. I’m tall. I say things like trash instead of rubbish. I adapt quickly. I meet people I get along with most of the time.
I grow to like the general manager. She is polite, and patient but if you cross her, there will be hell to pay. I vow never to cross her.
I worry about the regulars that drop by daily. I wonder about their lives. I wonder how they got to drink and stare at the floor every …single …day. I make up stories in my mind to pass the quiet hours.
I talk to the man I left behind constantly. He is my stability. He is my support. He is my superman. We talk about how to get him on this side of the world. We talk about it all the time.
He had a ticket to come. He canceled it. We broke up.
I go to work with a piece that doesn’t quite fit inside. People notice. Things become personal when you work with people for 10 hour shifts 4-5 times a week. People tried not to notice. I was obviously grieving. I put that part on hold in my mind for a couple months.
Time goes by. I work on my business. I learn Italian. I do Parkour once to twice a week. I cycle constantly.
I work enough to get paid vacation. I return to the place I moved from, spend a couple weeks with the man I left behind. This time I’d like for him to say, don’t go. He doesn’t. I’d like to say please follow. He wouldn’t anyhow. We remain at an impasse. He says he’ll send a message. He asks if I promise to show him Paris one day. I did. I return to the other side of the world. I wait for news from him. I keep waiting.
I had to stop waiting.
A new year begins. I look for another flat. I look for another job. I find new opportunities for my business. I move from South East London to East London. I go to Berlin.
I update my blog and people start asking questions. News travels fast. Coworkers ask about the man I had a story with but did not work out. Its awkward and flattering but mostly awkward. They now know too much about my personal life. I need to stop posting a link to my blog in the nooks and crannies of social media. I do it for people I am close to out of practicality. I need to stop. I also need to start blogging differently.
At times I look at how quickly things are moving. I look at how quickly things are changing and I feel like throwing up. I am now at the grown up table and my feet still don’t touch the floor.