Gravity

As usual, Maggie fell back into the cozy comfort of his baritone voice. An old ex-boyfriend is like a worn-out, favorite yet outdated pair of blue jeans. You tuck them away in your back closet where no one knows you are still-—in some distant, small way—holding on. You know you won’t wear them again, but you also know that nothing can replace them and you aren’t ready to rid yourself of the life you lived in them. (And you might secretly entertain the idea of trying them on again once in a blue moon, but then think the better of it.) History has a powerful pull on any relationship, and for some reason, that notion seemed especially potent last night. The curvature of his lips and the familiar memories that poured out of them were all reassurances that she was loved; she eventually gave up resisting and sank deeply into the solace of his blue-jean familiarity. She savored the way he called her “Margaret” just to make her feel special, she’d missed the quick banter only old friends share, and she worried that she might not ever find someone else who would love her as much as he had.

Somehow, Maggie and Jim had parted on amiable terms. Frankly, they'd known each other too long and been through too much together for them not to maintain a level of respect for one another. Though Jim had done some not-so-admirable things and Maggie never really appreciated Jim as much as she should have, the foundation of their relationship was built on admiration. They beautifully balanced qualities that the other lacked; in certain regards, they made a perfect match.

Jim was of the dorky, gentlemanly Cory Matthews (a la Boy Meets World) variety. Intelligent, masculine in a boyish way, yet surprisingly sentimental. Maggie was categorized as a type who repels all these things--fiercely independent, quasi feminist. [Fortunately she was not burdened with the name Topanga.] Still, she generally found herself drawn to a less-settled type--the type of guy that's fun to 'try-out', the ones who aren't serious and certainly could never become boyfriends. There's comfort in knowing that you can't fail someone. Or, rather, knowing that they'll flake out on you first. Somehow, Jim weaseled his way into Margaret's life regardless of all her prickly standards, and they dabbled in and out of romance for the better part of their adolescence.

[I can't seem to find a brief, tidy conclusion to this little ditty, so I guess I'll return to it some other time.]