“FUCK YOU!” Eve said. 

Then she slammed our door.  Correction, my door.  And just like that, the longest relationship of my life ends.  Not with a whimper but with a bang.  I couldn’t even tell you what our final fight was about.  Something about me not listening. 

In my defense, my ears have an audible limit of thirty decibels.  Once Eva started in on me she’d eventually reach a point where she just started sounding like a pair of cheap car speakers with the bass turned all the way up.               

Now it’s quiet.  Quiet enough for me to notice my ever growing tinnitus, a low pitch squeal I eared from too much music and not enough earplugs.  Quiet enough for me to hear that Seattle liquid sunshine, also known as rain.  Quiet enough for me to hear the early morning traffic on Airport Way.  Quiet enough for me to think.   

Maybe I should’ve stopped her?  Begged her to stay.  Maybe I should find out where she’s staying and grab my old boombox.  Serenade her like Cusack in ‘Say Anything’.  Or maybe I never should’ve asked her to move-in with me in the first place.  Maybe we could still work it out?  Or maybe I should’ve known it never would. 

Eva was the longest relationship I’ve even been in.  And before you ask, yes, one year and two days is the longest relationship I’ve ever had.  And yes, I’m 32.  Fuck you very much. 

Yet, here I am.  Asking myself the same question I did after all my forays into seemingly meaningful relationships.  But this should’ve been different.  This was a year.  A year and two days!  I never make a year!  I certainly never had a dame move in.  Hell, if they were still alive, I’m like 80% sure I would’ve introduced her to my parents!  But despite all I put into the relationship, the breakup had no emotional indication of the investment.  Maybe there’s something wrong with me? 

Now another man might’ve taken this thought as a sign.  Decide to be progressive.  Obama style.  Re-up.  Reload.  Change.  Well you know what?  Change can eat a dick.  I tried change.  Change just dumped my black ass.  I’m done drinking the relationship kool-aid.  Time to get back to doing what I do. 

I walk over to Megatron.  My gunmetal grey DELL laptop.  I brush my finger across the touchpad and Megatron comes to life. 

“Don’t even stress that bitch, Ty.”  I imagined Megatron saying.  “Me and the fellas were here before the bitch and we’ll be here long after the bitch leave.” 

I click on Pandora radio.  I choose my tried and true ‘Old School Hip-Hop’ station.  LL Cool J’s, ‘Momma said knock you out’ begins to play.  Serendipity baby. 

As my latest break-up anthem begins to play I go to my Facebook page.  Instead of picking a new profile pic I just crop Eva out.  Why?  ‘Cause fuck her.  I look good in that pic.  Then I change my relationship status from “In a Relationship” to “Single”.  Then I lean back and wait.  Counting down on my fingers.  Five. Four.  Three. Two.…My Facebook massager lights up with one, two, three, no, six new messages.  Three old flames.  Two girls who were “just friends”,  and even a good friend of Eva’s who I thought hated my guts.  My cell phone starts vibrating like Eva’s rabbit with a fresh set of double A’s.  Add four more names to the rebound list.  For a second I was a bit worried.  Then I remembered I gave all the females in my phone guy names after I caught Eva snooping. 

I get up out of the chair.  Feeling better with every text.  I sing along with Uncle L.  Don’t call it a comeback.  I been here for years.

I never broke up…okay okay!  I’ve never got dumped by a woman who lived with me before.  Sure, I’ve had the post break-up exchange of minor goods.  Like a cold war spy exchange.  Or a drug deal.  Same time, man!  SAME TIME!

But this.  It was like Eva’s style and substance threw up all over the place.  When the hell did my place become a Pier 1 Import store?  Where were my rap posters?  Where was my Seahawks flag?  When did she take down my damn Loony Toons!  She was like some sort of ‘Extreme Home Makeover’ ninja.  She’d lived here for less than four months but in that small window of time she’d managed to assimilate my bachelor pad like the damn Borg.  How did I never notice?  Like…when the hell did she get a popery machine?! 

The next two hours were a mad hunt to find all of my lost belongings.  And by extension, myself.  This shit was like a scavenger hunt.  I found my stuff in the back corner of closets, under the bed, and to my dismay, the leaky ass crawl space!  My original 1980 “The Warriors” poster, ruined!  My 1987 to 1995 Marvel/DC/Image comic book collection, ruined!  And, the one that literally brought a tear to my eye, my signed poster of the 1996 Super Sonics starting Five!  Payton, Kemp, Shemf. And the two other guys, fucking ruined!  I looked over at my DJ station.  I said I silent prayer that Eva was never stealthy enough to screw with my music.  She’d learned that lesson quick.  She had grabbed a Shenna Eason greatest hits album of the shelf and was surprised beyond words when I came home and instantly knew one of my albums had been missing. 

“How could you not notice US Tiberus?”  I imagined Gary “The Glove” Payton saying.

“I’m sorry Gary.”  I said.  “I didn’t know.”

“You just didn’t WANT to know!”  I imagined a washed out Shawn “Rain Man” Kemp say.

“You didn’t care what she did.  As long as she kept her hands off your precious albums.” 

“I deserve that.”  I conceded.

I tried for a few minutes to save Shawn and the rest but it was no use.  They were gone.  And for what?  Great sex and shitty fights.  None  of which I needed a damn live-in girlfriend for.

The “are you okay?” and “What happened?” text messages had begun to come in.  No phone calls though.  No one calls anymore.  I ignored all of them except for Jamal, AKA DJ Slumdog.  My best friend.  His text was quick and to the point:  Baltic Room 9pm.  It wasn’t a question.  ‘word’ I text back. 

I took a second to set a booty call with a club girl named Trisha.  A creamy skinned redhead who Eva absolutely hated.  Most sistas women can’t stand the thought of a black man hooking up with a white woman.  I’m an equal opportunity brother.  I love ALL the flavors.  But I was planning on making ‘Caucasian’ my weapon of choice for the foreseeable future.  Just flat asses and valley-girl accents for this negro. 

I suddenly remembered being a kid and watching ‘waiting to exhale’ with my sister and female cousins.  I remembered how cheerful they were when Angila Basset set fire to her husbands’ things.  Sure, I thought, the guy was low balling her on child support and alimony but come on.  It was LA.  She was gonna get her money.  But apparently a broken heart was carblanch for a woman scorned to engage in destruction of property.  You know, I was kinda feelin’ Angila right then.  And while I knew my heart wasn’t broken.  I was mad.  Mad that I let the Sonics down.  That I let Ajax and the rest of the Warriors down.  That I let Sups and Thor and Batman and Spawn, and Danger Girl (The first and only comic book I ever jacked off too) down.  Mostly I was mad that I changed.  I became someone I wasn’t for someone who ended up dumping me. 

Enough of all this bullshit, I thought.  Time to ride. 

I walked over to my wall.  The one part of my place that I was conscious enough to protect from Eva’s stealthy conversions.  I had 2876 albums on that wall.  I'd like to say I could name them all.  And gun to my head, I probably could.  But why the hell would I?  That's a whole lotta time just to prove what’s already obvious.  I love vinyl. 

I'm a dying breed.  A dinosaur.  In a few years it's only gonna be laptops and tablets.  Not that I'm above that sort of thing.  I love a good laptop as well as the next guy.  My father made me learn how to use a typewriter before he ever let me touch a computer.  When I asked him why he said, "Because, if you have to grab a dictionary and time stakingly make corrections you'll appreciate the striving for perfection.  In other words, it's easy to get lazy when mistakes don't come with consequences.  Grab the wrong album, you could lose the crowd.  Click the wrong button and no ones the wiser.  Now I could bore you with the idiocracies of what it's like to be a DJ.  I could tell you that it's magic or wondrous but the simple truth is this, I love it.  It's the only thing I've ever wanted to be and it's the only thing I've ever wanted to do.  If you have that something in your life, you get it.  If you don't, you won’t.  It's as simple as that.