Five years

I met a man a few years older than I the other night whose anxiety and heartbreak were clearly visible. I called it before we even spoke. Turns out he was involved with a younger woman and she was involved with even younger men. 

He's paying her bills and eating his heart out when she doesn't come home at night. Yeah, he's letting her stay with him too. She throws him a bone when he's at the end of his rope in order to keep the gravy flowing I'm supposing. 

We commiserated about this sort of thing for awhile. We sang a song together.

It was really his vanity that had taken a shot, I think. He said they'd been together for 15 years. He told me I should see her - she's absolutely beautiful.  And then he showed me photos of himself on his phone - professional headshots, press coverage, accolades. He talked about the things he owned, the money he'd made. Losing her, I think, was a trophy off his shelf. 

Okay. This guy will be just fine. All he's got to do is find (or purchase) another adoring (or convincing) groupie. 

I told him he ought to move her out and let her go. Unless, of course, he was ok with the current arrangement. He didn't want to hear that so I shut up about it. Nobody listens when they're in that state of mind. 

Give it time, friend. Like five years. At least five years. 

I hear fireworks out there right now. Some small town's finale.