It's Been Swell, Dear, but I Have to Let Go

Dear, what was it called yourself?
Oh yeah, Buttercup.
It was all so long ago, wasn't it? It's over. I know I am taking a risk in declaring this. It is entirely possible I may have to eat these words. After all, this has never been a stable relationship. In the beginning, I considered you shallow, an attention-craving kid with more ambition than talent.

It was easy to dismiss your allure when we traveled in different circles, but then you barged, headstrong and defiant, into my world. And you didn't seem to care about what people said about you I liked your demeanour, though, and when you took on challenges you weren't ready for, or that weren't a good fit, I thought it was brave. Foolhardy, maybe. But brave. Most of all, I think, I was attracted by how you dealt with your critics and detractors. You won them over by believing in yourself. You made so many mistakes: Bad choices in men, literally allowing strangers in your bedroom and seeming to value shock over substance.

Were you looking to self-destruct? Yet what didn't kill you just made you stronger _ and, I might add, more buff. Sure, you were a sexy-looking kid. But when that baby fat fell away, leaving that sculpted, sinewy...well. But what I really admired, OK, adored was that mind. When we finally met, just you and me and a ridiculously low-cut dress in a hotel room, well, you owned me, and you knew it. I came back and told everyone who would listen how smart, how cool, how seductive you were, even as you were trying to be tough. You reminded me of Foxy Brown.

So what happened? After spending all that time communicating with me on my level _ that ray of light was so beautiful _ the last couple of messages you sent me just seemed so, well, insincere. And the politics! Did you really want to be a politician? The move overseas, the English accent: Hey, I hardly have room to criticize. I'm an insecure Zambian, too, as if you'd remember.

I guess when you announced your "reinvention" I had to face facts. Before, you let other people use the word. Your applying it to yourself makes you seem desperate, not ironic. Then, last week, I heard that you are wrapping things up in the UK without ever coming to see me, and I realized you must have been too scared to face people who really knew and understood you.

I wasn't betrayed, just sad. I hope it works better for you over there. I'm sorry to have to write this, but I've given up hope. I can't pretend or defend anymore. Maybe you shouldn't either. I wish you the best, really. It's been, well, fascinating.

Signed,
Your boy toy no more.