I want my ex boyfriends to be boyfriends

I am obsessed with the idea of every man I’ve ever loved—ever been involved with in a significant way—being invited to sit in the same room. Chatting—having conversations with each other about how they know me. How we met. How things ended, or never really began.

I would organize it like a banquet—the kind of thing that smart kids or top athletes went to during high school and college. The kind of ceremony where they would sit beside their families, all dressed in their very best slacks, eating under seasoned chicken and mixed vegetables. 

It would be held in a windowless event space, inside a hotel as bland as blank paper. The chairs would be able to fold and unfold, able to accommodate those who arrived late—who had been added at the last moment. 

I imagine them sheepish at first, shuffling their feet and looking up under eyelashes at the men they were meant to sit beside. Some sinister, some sweet, all unsure why they’ve been invited here. 

When they were nearing the end of the second course—a whipped-topping covered sheet cake—my partner would emerge. Tall, curly-haired, bright blue eyes, deep voice, kind, endlessly funny, smart and gentle, he would stand without hesitation. He would then give the commencement speech. 

“Welcome gentlemen.” He would begin before breaking the news.

“By now, you should all know why you’re here.”

He would tell a funny story about the way I forget everything everywhere, how the fact that our cats exist makes me cry, regularly. He would talk about how I watch scary movies through a crack in my fingers.

He would go on to describe the softest parts of me—the skin of my arms, the part of phone call right before the end, my voice in the morning, the moment after hurriedly explaining an idea I’d just had..

He would speak of me gently, with love. The men in attendance would shift uncomfortably, knowing the ways they’d failed to notice or accept these parts of me. 

Just when it seems I had become bitter and angry in the years since I knew them, sending my boyfriend to chastise my exes, my partner would congratulate them for being there. Thank them for coming. Encourage them to talk amongst themselves.  

They would speak to each other in whispers, the bolder ones getting up to leave, but finding no exit. They would resign themselves to getting to know each other—where are you from? What do you do?

After enough meaningful chatting had occurred, I would finally emerge, looking fabulously understated, to hesitant, scattered applause. I would kiss my partner square on the mouth, and begin the award ceremony. 

I would clear my throat and, without preamble or disclaimer, say, “The recipient of the Best Breakup Line Award goes to ‘I’m not a psychiatrist, Allison.’”

Uneasy applause. A sheepish walk by the man in question across the stage.

I would go on.

The recipient of the most egregious cheating award goes to—

Worst insult goes to—

To he who threw up after our first kiss—

Worst driver—

The uneasiness would fade to soft laughter and cautious joy. It was an apologetic act, to accept these awards—to take the certificate from my hand, look me in the eyes, shake my partner’s hand. 

By the end we would be sitting on a clean slate. All of us in a bland room, in a hotel somewhere entirely neutral, stomachs full of sheet cake, forgiven. 

I want my ex boyfriends to be boyfriends. I want them to treat people better. More than anything, I want to forgive them. 

I strongly believe there needs to be a ceremony for that.