Last night I dreamed about the man I consider to have been the first great love of my life: Rob, my college boyfriend. With him I learned love and happiness -- and jealousy and hurt.
I hope whatever force is behind this universe forgives me for what a shitty girlfriend I was. You name it, I did it. Roommates were involved. But he wasn't a saint either. Anyway.
I met him in January of my sophomore year, set up by my friend Vic, who was dating his roommate. When Rob and I discovered we shared a birthday, our bond was cemented: Clearly, we were meant to be.
Things were good for a long time -- too good, my deficient self-esteem told me. The first summer, I told him we should break up because I didn't deserve him. He wouldn't let me.
We drifted apart and back together again during senior year, and then he met another girl he would later marry. The last time I saw him was at my mother's funeral in 1990.
I've often thought of writing him a letter apologizing for all the crap I'd pulled, but friends agree that would be a selfish move.
In my dream last night, he and his family had moved to San Francisco, and for some reason invited me to visit. He had five really cute kids. During the visit, the wife became increasingly hostile toward me and, when I wanted to say goodbye to Rob, she wouldn't tell me where he was, so I left. But Rob followed me out and I led him away from their house and hugged him and kissed him and whispered in his ear, "I love you. I would do anything to be in your life again."
How many great loves are we allowed to fuck up, I wonder?