Frankie

ALL SHOOK UP

four writers mull over a moment that

changed their perspective.

By

Mia

Timpano

I had an ex I stayed friends with

for many years after we broke up.

I called him “my prince”. I believed

our love existed beyond space and

time – because it really felt that

way. He nurtured me through

painful chapters of my life. He

described me as a “small, wounded

forest creature” and said it was his

“job” to “protect” me. Reflecting

on that now, all I can say is:

what the fuck.

At the time, it seemed like he was

giving me what I needed. These

days, I’m older, intolerant of

people who treat me like a non-

human invalid who originated

in a mystical enchanted woodland,

and am slightly confused as to

why I elevated this individual to

a royal status. Remaining ‘friends’

kept me locked in a strange world

with him – one in which we had

to call each other every day. I

claimed he was closer to me than

family. And I believed I could

not exist without his soothing

words and occasional hugs.

The friendship was like a drug that

gave me some good feelings, but

was simultaneously hollowing me

out and destroying my self-esteem.

We don’t chat anymore. I don’t

wish anything bad to happen to

him, I just know our friendship

wasn’t Dolly Parton-Kenny

Rogers “Islands in the Stream”

beautiful. Now. It’s taken me the

better part of a decade to get this.

And, as a result of my newfound

wisdom, I’ve told anyone who

will listen that you should never

• ever – be friends with an ex.

So, when a recent ex – let’s call

him Henry – popped past my work,

I braced myself. I knew he’d be

coming in; I saw his name in our

Google calendar. Thinking it would

be best to pave the way to politely

avoiding each other, I dropped

him a line to let him know I’d be

around. He replied politely and

suggested it would be nice to catch

up over coffee. Would it be, though?

Wouldn’t it be awful? And fucked?

And cause us both to break out into

eczema? I accepted, nevertheless.

Henry appeared next to my desk

looking radiant. Life had clearly

been going well for him since

our break-up – skin doesn’t lie.

So I told him, honestly, “You

look incredible.” He paid me a

compliment of some sort; I don’t

recall what exactly, because Henry

is constantly complimentary, so

it’s to be expected that he’ll say

something like, “You look like

Audrey Hepburn,” even if you’ve

just vomited in his lap. I’m not

saying he lies – I’m just saying he

sees beauty everywhere he goes.

We arranged to catch up across

the street once I was done with

my task at hand. My heart

jackhammered for the first 10

minutes of our coffee consumption.

Then, as we began to discuss life, our

creative endeavours, our creative

frustrations, work, opportunities,

lack of opportunities, travel, I

found myself thinking, “Aren’t

you awesome?” Not awesome as in

want-to-be-with-you awesome,

but awesome as in all-round-

person-in-the-world awesome.

We kept talking. He promised

to come to a show I was putting

on. He did. We spoke for a while

afterwards. We laughed about

silly things and discussed serious

things. He wrote to me to say that

I appeared “like a lantern lit from

within”. He is a friend. But it’s

radically different to being friends

with my other ex. Because everyone

is different, and every relationship

is different. You can’t take what

you learn about one person and

apply it to all of human society.

You need to be open to the possibility

that things will unfold completely

differently with a different

person. As it turns out, you can

be friends with an ex. I was

wrong. I’m glad I was wrong.

writers’ piece