I had to learn about the casualty of shallow connection in order to appreciate depth and truth, and in order to want it.

Story and photos by Vico LaCava - vicolacava@gmail.com
Photo © Vico LaCava

Photo © Vico LaCava

Once, freshly dumped and starving, I fell in love with a waiter. He brought bread to my table and, later, wine to my house, and we stayed up all night, drunk, talking about writing books and turning thirty and other impossible things. The next day we sat on my mattress and ate spaghetti and didn’t do dishes. We opened more wine, but not blinds, and he quit his stupid job from right there in our dark and wild bed of impulsivity. Then he opened my front door, squinted into the sunlight, kissed my forehead, said “Darling, I’m not done learning from you,” and moved two thousand miles away. So I got on a plane, festering, on some self-proclaimed crusade for independence and discovery, and flew as far as I could in the opposite direction. I rented a car, drove it to the most random, remote place I could find, a blond, introverted bat out of solidarity hell, never to love again. I pulled into a parking garage and immediately fell in love with the valet who opened my car 888 are mainly a gaming company using their online casinos and poker items at the forefront while Betdaq is first of all a betting exchange. door. I literally didn’t even make it inside the building. We swam naked in a pool and drank all the beer we could find. I threw up in a bush by the water pump and lost my brand new dream catcher earring, and fell asleep in an unsustainable nightmarish condition of relentless, fleeting, predictable, shelf-life love.

Photo © Vico LaCava

Photo © Vico LaCava

I came home a sopping failure, unable to not love, unable to be alone, and commiserated with the mailman that lived on my sofa by drinking flavored rum straight and smoking menthols in the house. “You should cool it, Vico, you know that?” he said, pouring a beer into a boot. “Dry out a little. Take some time, you know, for you.”

I thought I wanted to dry out then, to be wrung tight, twisted, drip-dried, hung from a line like fresh, white, clean linen, or tumble together, with anyone, a matching pair of damp, dancing socks, but it wasn’t time and I knew it. “Darling,” I told him, “I’m not done learning.”

I wanted to learn, still, that love-spongey, playful girls with swords that leave their phone numbers on napkins are not emotionally invincible, that it is possible to crumble to the weight of repeated artificiality, that it is possible to sink in nothing at all, to drown in dryness, to overflow with emptiness. I had to learn about the casualty of shallow connection in order to appreciate depth and truth, and in order to want it. I had to learn about fear and dependency though chemical and through heart in order to combat it. I needed to learn that if someone loves you today, they may not love you tomorrow, and it may not even be your fault, and that such is the beauty and liquidity of life, and I had to learn to drink it down with a smile and to order another.

I’d like to live in a constant state of learning to be wet, then dry, then both at the same time, because this is love.

4 Responses to “Dry”

  1. Kristie says:

    Great piece. Makes me want to live life with my eyes open just a little bit more.

  2. Jeanine says:

    I’ve always been touched by your writing. Visceral.

  3. Ebru says:

    The truth about love and the fact you feel it is almost the first time each and everytime….so intuitvely written. Thanks for sharing

  4. Myron says:

    Excellent and so very much enjoyed.