If this little chapter in my life were to become a TV series — think Fleabag, Love, or You’re The Worst — there is one interesting, uh, “event” that I’d like to pitch to the writers. I call it The Night I Learned What “Auro-Tadalafil” Is.
The setting: my dingy-ass apartment. I live in a dusty old building with elevator buttons so worn out they need to be duct-taped in place; hallways so musty they smell like some rancid concoction of tobacco and weed and Uber Eats food delivery; staircases so crowded the hoards of abandoned furniture could put Hoarders to shame.
Thankfully my unit has been renovated, so it’s not as janky. It got clean vinyl floors, new kitchen appliances, freshly painted walls, that sorta deal. The light fixtures are not as new though, and my bathroom lights have been busted for couple months now. I brush my teeth and take a shower in the dark, with only the small glow of the cellphone light providing a semblance of brightness. (This detail may or may not be important in the story. I’ll let you decide.)
So, one night, the guy comes over. We eat takeout and we watch The Office, then things lead to things which lead to things that lead to things (ahuehuehue). The guy does not sleep over and goes home at right about midnight.
After the guy leaves, I go to the bathroom. I wash my hands and find a palm-sized clear plastic bag on my bathroom sink. The bag has a tear on the top right corner. It is empty. It also has the guy’s name on it and the words “Auro-Tadalafil” plus some other details like the name of a doctor and the address of a clinic. I assume it is a prescription pill.
I google Auro-Tadalafil and learn that it treats erectile dysfunction among other ailments. I wonder: did he need the pill because I was maddeningly ugly that he couldn’t get it up without any help from, uh, science? Did he leave the packaging in my place on purpose? Or did he forget about it simply because it was too dark in the bathroom to notice?
“Home na,” he texts me a bit later. I put a heart emoji on the message. I do not say anything more.
Two of my dude friends visit me the next day, and I tell them what happened.
“Do I bring it up to him?” I ask.
“No!” says one of them. “If I were him and you told me about it, I would just ghost you man. That’s embarrassing!”
“Okay, but…” I say, “but did he leave it on purpose?”
“Who the fuck would leave that shit on purpose?”
“I don’t know! Him? Because he wants to turn me off so I will stop talking to him?”
“No, man. Men don’t announce these things. You’re just overthinking.”
Am I? What do you guys think? Did he leave the thing on purpose? Did he take the pill because he didn’t find me attractive and he needed the help? Why would a guy in his early 30s take it anyway?
I kid you not, friends, I sunk a good amount of time googling everything I could find about this pill. I was out of it, although looking back, I now think it’s sorta, kinda, medyo funny. Isn’t it?
So I guess Glenice was right. It won’t be long before I start taking this, uh, “mess” seriously and start laughing about it. I still stalk the guy’s Twitter and I still feel a burn in my chest every time I listen to Babygirl’s “Over In No Time”, which I still do a lot. A lot lot. That song is just, ugh. Hallucinate your face when I’m faced with a crowd — ugh.
But I no longer expect him to text again, at least not until December after he comes back from his Trip to Ex-Girlfriend-Land and moves out of his current apartment. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. The realization has started to sink in: he and I are simply not a good match. Different goals, different interests. I wish he could have been more upfront and sent me message saying that he’s no longer feeling it but, yeah. All good. It is what it fucking is.
Featured photo by Deon Black.