This is a story about what may or may not have been a good idea.
So, Ex-Ex contacted me again and asked to meet for a drink. I am bored. I need blog fodder. I agreed.
And then Foxie Doxie got an eye infection and we had a vet appointment ... at the vet in my old hood. At the same time Ex-Ex and I were going to meet for drinks.
Foxie and I ended up just going over to the home that Ex-Ex and I purchased together, the house he still lives in. I hadn't been there for more than four years.
Let me just tell you about this house. I fucking loved this house. 1927 bungalow. Arts and crafts tile fireplace. Incredible architectural detailing. I painted. I landscaped. I cleaned. I held down the fort when Ex-Ex traveled for work all the time. And when we broke up, I left the house. My house. With the exception of my parents' house, it's still the place I have lived the longest.
I have thought of the house probably more than I have thought about Ex-Ex.
Ex-Ex said that his super-sexy job didn't allow a lot of time for home maintenance and that he really hadn't changed anything since I moved out. Well, he was right. But it also looked like he hadn't cleaned in a while. I'm pretty sure that super-sexy job means he can afford a cleaning lady. He might check into it. It was just odd to see the floors scratched all to hell by his big dog and noticeable layers of dust on everything. I used to clean and clean and clean, and he'd walk in and be all, "This place is a dump. I'm going to have to take a day off work to clean." And now I'd be afraid to go barefoot in the house.
So, there was that. And the new living room furniture. And the new artwork. And the yard that had gone all to hell. So glad I busted my ass on your dumpy-ass house, you home-maintenance moron.
But there were some surprising things that were the same. The rug in the bathroom was the same. I slept on that rug one night after a bad run-in with cheap vodka. And perched on the kitchen windowsill was the tiny glass perfume bottle that I found buried in the backyard.
I sat as a guest on a chair that I had helped purchase. We drank beer and watched the dogs play. Foxie marked a rug where he had marked a hundred times before. As I half-heartedly pretended to clean it up, I noticed a framed fortune from a Chinese fortune cookie. Displayed on the coffee table, it read, "You and your mate will be happy in your life together."
Ex-Ex actually asked about me, unlike our last meeting. He wanted to know how I was handling "the whole Geriatric Poodle / break-up thing." It felt a little ... patronizing.
We talked about books and trips and dogs and his grandma's Alzheimer's. The beer hit me and I had a sudden urge to just go lay down on the bed that had been mine for seven years. But instead, I gathered up Foxie, threw on my cashmere Pashmina (because I! Am! Fabulous!), and left.
The thing that struck me as I drove off was that he walked me outside, but didn't watch to see if I drove off safely. A man who cares about a woman watches. Ex-Ex did not.