The Super Bowl: A Love Story

I am not a major football fan. I cheer for the Pats purely because you pretty much have to, living in Boston. That said, I do have some fond feelings toward the pomp and circumstance Super Bowl. They are tied to this story.

It has been a long time since I have written about love or relationships in a blog space. In part it’s because of getting older and wanting to keep certain precious things more private (and have them stay that way). It’s in part about desperately wanting to get the writing “right” about such an important piece of my life — but two years later in the attempt to write the perfect ‘Modern Love’ story, perfect continues to be the enemy of good.

Set the clock back to two years ago, a Sunday night in 2018 — the last one in a bitter-cold January. I’m on the phone with the person I’m dating at the time. He’s traveling for work and I’m sitting in his apartment, as I am most nights of the week regardless of whether he’s away. I practically live there, though we don’t formally live together. It’s tidy, modern, American Psycho-clean, and there’s not a thing out of place.

Except for me, it turns out.

What starts off as the most mundane of calls turns into the efficient undoing of our relationship. With a single sentence, it’s clear our time together has run out. In mentioning the building’s letter to renew his lease, he expressed his desire to move to the suburbs. It was a checkmate moment — something he wanted, and something I wouldn’t compromise. It couldn’t have been a…