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I
decided to end the relationship. But how? I had no clue how to break up with
someone I couldn't talk to. I thought about using a third party
to translate, then resolved to
meet her face to face and do my best. I sat Marie down at the
local Irish pub and, utilizing every German word I knew, gently let her go.
She seemed to understand — at least, she nodded her head over and over.
I patted her hand, made a sorrowful face and walked away. I felt a peculiar
sense of pride. I'd managed to breach the language barrier, and in the process,
achieve the least painful breakup of my life so far. I was still patting myself
on the back a few days later when she showed up at my apartment, ready to hit
the clubs.
Was this a joke? I stood in my doorway, keeping her in
the hall as I once again tried to explain myself. This time, some of my meaning
must have penetrated, because her face darkened and she began to shout in French.
Some of my neighbors, attracted by the sound of a good domestic spat, appeared
in their doorways to watch the fireworks. Reaching to the fuzzy outer edge of
my vocabulary, I tried repeating over and over that we just didn't connect. The
guy next door, who spoke excellent English, sidled up to me and quietly asked
why I kept saying to Marie, "We don't smell crazy bacon." Great. Eventually, Marie stormed away, embarrassed
by all the attention. I retreated into my room, relieved that the entire ordeal
had finally ended, and that we could now both move on.
The first note appeared on my door a few days later.
It consisted of one word, "Warum?" and at least twenty question marks. Warum is
German for "why." Was there a German word for "closure?" Marie seemed to think
so, but I had never learned it. Notes appeared regularly for the next week
or so, papering my door until my neighbors began calling me Warum. "Hey Warum, how are the French lessons going?" I had to end this before she carved the word into my chest while I slept.
I sat down with her in her room and once again tried
to explain. I'd added a few new words to my arsenal (break; too fast; as a friend;
restraining order), and I fired them off one after the other, praying I could
take down this relationship once and for all. But my cram session went for naught
as she glared back at me in frustration. "Warum?" she cried. "Wir
kann nicht sprechen!" I shouted, which meant something in the neighborhood
of, "We can't talk!" "Wir müssen sprechen!" she replied ("We must
talk!"). Was she mishearing me on purpose? At last, I was reduced to
grunts and expansive hand gestures. A lifetime of education fled the room as I flailed around
like an extra from Quest for Fire. I made talking motions with my hands,
followed by exaggerated shrugs and head shakes. Finally, after I'd acted out
my new performance piece for a good fifteen
minutes, the light dawned in her eyes. "Wir können nicht sprechen!" she
said, her voice ringing with liberation. I almost fainted from relief. Was that
so hard? I staggered out of her apartment and never saw her again.
I have a new rule now. If I can't conjugate a verb in
your language and you can't do likewise in mine, there's no point in even ordering
an appetizer — the date's over. I'm sure there are plenty of great women
I'm missing out on, but what's the use in dwelling on them? I need to talk to
the woman, banter with her, flatter her and dazzle her. I need my greatest weapon,
my tongue, or else I'm reduced to a savage. I make too many dumb mistakes in
love to deny myself a chance to talk my way out of them. It's what I'm good at.
n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Scott Mebus is
the author of The Big Happy and Booty
Nomad. He is a novelist, songwriter, playwright, comic
and music producer. Previously, he was a producer for
MTV and VH1, where he worked on The Real World, The
Tom Green Show, and MTV Yoga. He lives in New York
City.
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©2006 Scott Mebus and Nerve.com
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