It was a beautiful February day in Los Angeles after the fires. The sun burned hot over. I arrived at my Ducati motorcycle to a place outside its restaurant in the arts district. It was hot, thirst, hungry, three simple needs that instantly vanished when I saw it.
Miguel.
Even with my dark helmet shield, our eyes locked up. I was taking the ramp to the kitchen, his familiar movements for me as my own breath.
For a moment, time slowed down. The weight of the tacit words, of unresolved anguish, of the unanswered questions hanging between us. He had spent two months trying to make sense of the silence in which he left me. The last time we talked, I had dropped a afternoon pump on a Friday night, a few days before Christmas, in the casual way he could.
“I'm not committed to you,” he said. Only in this way, a simple prayer of nothing that stepped blind.
And then, the knife sported.
“I really like this woman in San Diego. I'm watching her at Christmas. “
I could still listen to the words, feel that numbness nods, as a short circuit in my brain.
Had we not spent a perfect weekend in Los Angeles? Cenizing in Bavel, seeing Liverpool play, the quiet intimacy of me reading while walking his dogs. Weren't we gone to Breta Lounge for my favorite cake, we took your BMW Vintage to take a walk, shared a moment that felt exclusively ours?
And what about the sweetness of those two days in Orange County: dinner, Christmas game in Laguna, laughter in the photomaton in a restaurant, as well as our first appointment before 18 months before, laughing and capturing our undeniable joy in the snapshots?
The memories were flooded while I sat on my Ducati, wondering why I was here, why his restaurant, which was selling, had not yet closed the warehouse and why this pain still grabbed me. Why had he been silent after treating me so carelessly? His last text message on December 31 said he was fine, he needed time, he had been sick, but he would feel in touch like an echo in an empty cannon. I gave him time. But what I got in return was nothing.
And nothing is a kind of cruelty of your own.
Michael's voice shook me.
“Rainie, I'm late! I don't have time to talk to you. “
I made a gesture. The heat was pressed against my face when I took off my helmet and then my leather jacket. I met his gaze and asked the question that had been burned inside me for weeks since we spent last time in December and his last text on December 31.
“Why ghost me? The ghost was what you do to strangers, for people who don't matter. “
Had he really meant so little for him?
I didn't have a real answer, just a weak, “I thought it was better for you.” He agreed that we could make a plan to speak “later”, at some point after the restaurant closed the tank, which was still in the air. Then he told me to do at home at the restaurant and told his staff to take care of me. Then he left.
I should also have gone. But I stayed.
Sitting at the bar, I found myself talking with a stranger. Another rider of Ducati.
Tim.
Three seats down, he had intervened when the cantinero asked about my bicycle. In a matter of minutes, we were deeply in a conversation, united by something simple, something easy.
I looked at my watch – 3:09 pm What! How was it so late? I had to climb Mount Wilson before it darkened and cold. I gave Tim my card and left, without expecting anything.
That night, he sent a text message. Then he called.
For three hours, I was laughing, really laughing for the first time in months.
Two days later, Tim and I met for a relaxed dinner on Roger's Gardens farm. Then, when he kissed me, it wasn't just the lip meeting: it was a balm, a quiet tranquility that was still here, still capable of connection, still alive.
The next morning, his conference jumped and brought me breakfast in bed. We decided to ride together. But first, a stop at the motorcycle store and then a half -hour appointment in my oncologist's office. When I left, there was, in his Ducati, next to mine, waiting.
We ride the coast, tending through Laguna Canyon, the Toro Road, Santiago Canyon, stopping at Cook's corner for hamburgers. The conversation flowed as effortlessly as miles under our tires. His laughter felt like sunlight that leaked through a dense forest, reaching places in me that had been dark for too long.
Tim had run Ducis. He was an expert. And yet, when he looked at me, he said something unexpected.
“You are a good pilot and your shape is perfect. It rides better than any of my friends. “
The words hit differently from any compliment he had received in a long time. Somewhere in Michael's silence, in his rejection, in the weeks of doubt, he had begun to believe that it was not enough.
That night, lying alone in my bed, I felt something changed.
Michael, who had once occupied all the thoughts, every breath, who had not yet communicated to talk to me, suddenly seemed … distant. Least. The weight of his absence felt lighter.
Not because Tim would have replaced it. But because Tim had reminded me of something I had forgotten: myself.
Michael's silence had stolen pieces of my trust, had made me question my value. But an afternoon of laughter, conversation, to reach speeds of more than 100 mph in my Ducati with someone who seemed to value myself and did not doubt myself; He brought my confidence to the front and the center.
You may never see Tim again. But I will always be grateful for what without knowing it gave me: the understanding that I am complete. I am enough. I don't need Michael's love, or his silence, to define me.
The next morning, I slept, letting the experience settled, allowing me to feel it.
Then I threw my jacket, I grabbed my helmet and went out to my Ducati.
I was full of joy and voila. I was finally moving forward.
The author is a personal assistant in Orange County. She lives in the Newport Beach area. She is on Instagram: @Rainienb
Los Angeles Affairs Chronices The search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to listen to their real history. We pay $ 400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find presentation guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
