A few years ago, in the middle of a surprisingly sedate breakup conversation, I tried to explain what it was I wanted out of a relationship, out of marriage, out of life. It wasn’t simply that we weren’t right for each other, I tried to say; it was that our relationship didn’t lend itself to a certain kind of openness, to love of the world. What I wanted out of a partnership, I said – though clumsily – was to be standing together, around an enormous table, with piles of food heaped high, with prosecco free-flowing, with all manner of ragtag people, in all their particular strangeness, in silly costumes and vintage furs, showing up, unbidden and welcome, at the door.
“You’re breaking up with me,” he said, astounded, “because I won’t cohost parties with you?”
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