Relationship Frankenstein; or The Modern Brometheus
The man she knows and loves was formed, collecting parts here and there from the dissecting rooms and slaughterhouses of relationships past.
It was on an arid night in November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of my skin care routine around me, that I might infuse some glow and warmth into the lifeless, weathered face that looked back at me from the mirror. I had already applied the hyaluronic acid as a base layer. The gooey, slippery substance was sinking deep into my epidermis, where it would work its magic to reduce fine lines and wrinkles. I was just about to reach for my retinol solution when my girlfriend appeared in the arch of the doorway.
“I love that you have a skin care routine,” she said, as she beamed at me with a love I didn’t deserve. “It really says a lot about you that you take the time to take care of yourself.”
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? I smiled at my girlfriend, though inside I wanted to run away. I ached to dash into my bedquarters and smash the mirrors to rid myself of the curse of looking upon a man I no longer recognized. She loved these things about me: my skin care routine, my sense of style, the fact that I can properly use the term “male gaze,” yet she knows not these qualities I possess through no endeavors of my own.
The man she knows and loves was formed, collecting parts here and there from the dissecting rooms and slaughterhouses of relationships past. They were fused together, in an act defiant of God and Nature, until a new man emerged. A man that I fear has been cursed to roam the earth without a soul.
It was on the night of our first date that she began to fall in love with this man. I learned this much later, and when I asked her why I so immediately took her charm, she told me it was because I was “such a good listener” and “was so interested in her,” unlike many others. It was only through many failed first dates with varied women that I learned that “sharing stories about myself that your story reminded me about” does not count as “interest” and that asking follow-up questions or even a simple “that’s cool, tell me more about that” can go much further in the way of making your date feel seen.
Upon her first visit to my apartment (of which I will refrain from sharing any torrid details), she marvelled at my mattress and that it sat atop a proper bedframe. It was only recently that my slumber had achieved such loft, after another such visit ended abruptly when my guest took leave with the parting wisdom of “miss me with that mattress on the floor mess, I don’t have time for men who don’t take pride in their home.” It had never before occurred to me that sleeping so low to the ground was a matter of pride. But the bedperch did wonders not only for my image, but also for my aging back.
“I appreciate that you dress in earthy colors that harmonize with the warm undertones of your skin.”
“You have so many towels, and by that I mean you have more than one towel.”
“I did a deep dive on your socials and didn’t find a single problematic post.”
Little did she know that one day I took search to the social archives for *my_user_name* plus any slur or pejorative term I could think of and scrubbed the record clean of any past offenses. She believes “pejorative” is a word I’ve known for years and not something I recently learned after being scolded that I needed to become a “better straight white male ally.”
These qualities that this man possesses that she so loves are not rightfully earned through his own care and self-work. The man wonders if she is the right partner for him, or if she would just be really good friends with all of his exes. The man wonders if he is a man at all, or simply the combined efforts of all the women who ever cared enough to try to change him.
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