摘要：疫情分手后，她买下一只象征自愈的蓝色糖碗，却在重圆破镜时失手打碎。当崩溃的哭声惊醒清晨，男友默默做完一件事——没有安慰，没有质问，只是用最沉默的行动接住了她所有的不安。这是一个关于破碎与修复、自我与相守的现代爱情故事。《纽约时报》Modern Love专栏本周

有趣灵魂说

译文为原创，仅供个人学习使用

The New York Times | Modern Love

纽约时报 | 摩登情爱

My Boyfriend’s Most Romantic Act

我男友最浪漫的举动

After my longtime partner and I split up, I got a big, comforting dog. But in a moment of deep sadness, I needed a human being.

与长久相伴的伴侣分手后，我养了一只给人慰藉的大狗。但在深沉的悲伤中，我需要的是一个人。

By Jen Horsey

Brian Rea

疫情对我们每个人来说都是一段艰难时光，而我却决定彻底放手，结束了与相伴十年伴侣的关系。我爱他，但在危机的混乱中，我开始心生疑虑。

多年来，我的男友平日大多在洛杉矶陪我，周末则去北加州探望女儿和年迈的母亲。疫情封锁出行后，他似乎必须做出选择。我坚强独立，而她们需要照顾，于是我们决定他应该北上陪伴他们。我们彼此安慰说这只是几周的事，然后含泪道别。

分居两地后，一些重大问题开始浮现。在一起十年之后，我们若不是家人，又算什么？情况很复杂，但如果在这场千载难遇的危机中，我们无法共同面对，那我们真的适合在一起吗？

对我而言，答案只能是否定的。

分手让居家时期从原本“孤独相伴”的艰难体验，变成了更糟的“彻底独处”。我沉浸在悲伤中迷失方向，挣扎于隔离中作为单身女性的新身份。我甚至不再认识自己，也不知道下一步该怎么做。

在平常时期，我可能会换个新发型或开始健身。但居家剥夺了分手后焕然一新的治愈力，因为谁会注意到呢？Zoom会议上的同事吗？何况美容院和健身房已关闭数月。

于是我养了一只狗。而且不是普通的狗，而是一只未经训练、体型巨大的大丹犬，对所有人事物都会吠叫和猛扑。它似乎既无视我的存在，又害怕我的离开。哪怕只被单独留下几分钟，它也会哀嚎不止。但它填补了前任留下的空间，甚至更多。

我还订购了一些物品，旨在将我们曾共享的公寓改造成只属于我的家——一个只属于我和狗狗的小天地。在网上随心所欲地点击，不受恋爱妥协的束缚，我选择了粉色的亚麻床品、香氛蜡烛、几盏为客厅增添温暖的灯和一套茶具。我最喜欢的是一只好看的蓝色糖碗，这件12美元的奢侈品是我的前任会讨厌的那种。

从它到货的那一刻起，我就爱上了它。它被捧在手中，仿佛是我自己用森林潮湿泥土气息的黏土塑造而成。它圆润完美，釉色如广阔天空和无垠海洋的蓝。

那只碗带来了慰藉。每个早晨，当我用它为咖啡加糖时，都会欣赏它，它开始承载起一种意义——这种意义只有当你被封锁在家数月、不敢呼吸时才会产生。

这只碗成了我疫情时期的护身符，代表着对细微事物的感恩。它也成了分手的护身符——一件自我关爱的物品，象征着我将自身需求放在首位。这是我当时给自己的一份礼物，是那时我以为所需的一切。它足够好，因为我也足够好。

狗狗的行为逐渐平稳，开始习惯与我一起生活。哀嚎停止了，我们开始享受每天的散步。它精力充沛、冲动活泼，是个喧闹的伙伴，但却讨人喜欢。

日子一天天过去，岁月流转，世界逐渐重新开放。人们可以再次自由出行，我的前任不再担心无法见到母亲和女儿。在这个新世界里，我们重新发现了彼此，并逐渐地——然后突然之间——达成共识：当我们在一起时，一切都会更好一点。而且狗狗也很爱他。

我们决定重新开始，一起搬进新家，一座海边舒适的西班牙风格小屋，那里有一间卧室供他的女儿居住，一张餐桌可供他与母亲共进家庭晚餐。一个让他的物品和我的物品共存的地方。

搬家整理时，我越来越担心可能弄丢了那只糖碗。最终，我在最后一个标着“厨房”的箱子底部找到了它，并立即将它摆放在新早餐角落的桌上，赋予它尊贵的位置。在那里，它成为一幅不协调静物画的中心：他的橙色铸铁胡椒研磨器、我们的竹制盐盒，以及我的完美蓝色糖碗。即便在这幅共处的画面中，它仍是我理解的“我们”中的“我”的一部分。

然后我打碎了它。

疫情开始五年后，我的前男友（现男友）还在床上熟睡，我伸手盲目的越过报纸去拿咖啡，手背将糖碗从厨房桌面上扫落。

狗狗立刻冲过去，但我推开它，从地板上捡起八片蓝色碎片和一把方糖。我决定要修补它。我要把它全部粘起来，它的不完美中将有新的美；裂开的表面将讲述一个关于韧性的故事。

当我在厨房抽屉里翻找胶水时，狗狗固执地想要尝一尝台子上可能致命的糖和陶瓷混合物。它的吠叫以一种令我惊讶的方式刺激着我的神经。我知道我的反应不仅仅是关于噪音。

但糖碗只是一件“物品”，我告诉自己。“物品”是会破碎。它们没有意义。它们可以被修复或替换。

尽管，我已经查过，这款特定的“物品”已经停产。而且，该死，它确实有意义。它是一件代表大事的小物：它是一个象征。在推开狗狗和笨拙地摆弄胶水时，我第二次将碗碰落到地板上，八片变成了十二片。

我的伴侣被骚动吵醒，从卧室出来。狗狗仍在吠叫。

“带它出去好吗？随便去哪儿？”我嘶声说道，同时移动身体保护我碗的残骸，以免被现在激动不已的68公斤重的狗狗破坏。沮丧之下，我笨拙地再次撞击了碗，当它第三次落地时，碎片变成了碎屑。我的一部分也破碎了。

一切停止了。那时从我胸腔发出的声音低沉而原始。它回响着二十年前我得知父亲去世那一刻的尖叫。那是一声失去和哀悼的哭喊，如此响亮，连隔壁的屋顶工人都停下了钉钉子的动作。

“我没事。我没事。我没事，”我喊道。

但我并不不是没事。一点也不。我的狗狗现在更关心我而不是糖，把它的大鼻子拱到我身边，几乎把我撞倒。“出去！”我喊道。

我的伴侣此时完全清醒，给狗狗系上绳，一言不发地离开了。

我勉强振作起来，将碎片扔进垃圾桶。然后我冲进卧室，拉上窗帘，扑到床上开始哭泣。颤抖着、抽泣着，为我破碎的糖碗，为我破碎的自我，为森林地面的泥土气息，为广阔的蓝天和无垠的海洋，为象征“我们”中“我”的那一部分的毁灭。

我彻底失去了依托。或者也许是崩溃了？毕竟，它只是一只糖碗。

当我终于开始平静下来时，我拿起手机向伴侣道歉。然后我看到他发来的一条短信。上面写着：“我找到了制造商。一个全新的正从英国寄来。”

我爱我的新糖碗。它并不完全一样。尽管这只也是海天般的蓝色，由森林地面的黏土制成，但它对我的意义已彻底改变。经历了疫情、分手、和解、搬家、收养巨犬以及让我崩溃的意外之后，这只碗不再象征“我们”中的“我”。它变成了“我”中的“我们”。

Jen Horsey is a motor-sport marketing and communications consultant in Los Angeles.

珍·霍西是洛杉矶的一名赛车运动营销与传播顾问。

The pandemic was a rough time for all of us, and I decided to go allin by splitting up with my partner of 10 years. I loved him, but, in the chaos of crisis, I began to have doubts.

For years, my boyfriend had spent most weekdays with me in Los Angeles and most weekends visiting his daughter and aging mother in Northern California. With travel on lockdown, it seemed that he would have to choose. I was strong and capable, and they were not, so we decided he should go north to be with them. We told each other it would be a few weeks and said our tearful goodbyes.

With us separated, some big questions began to emerge. After a decade together, what were we if not family? It was complicated, but if we couldn’t find a way to shelter together during this once-in-a- lifetime crisis, were we really meant to be together?

For me, the answer had to be no.

Our breakup turned quarantine from what would have been the difficult experience of being alone together into something much worse: being alone all alone. I found myself adrift in grief, struggling with my new identity as a single person in isolation. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. Or what to do next.

In normal times, I might have gotten a new haircut or started a gym routine. But quarantine had stripped the breakup makeover of its healing powers, because who would even notice? My colleagues on Zoom meetings? And in any case, salons and gyms had been closed for months.

So I got a dog. And not just any dog, but a giant, untrained Great Dane who barked and lunged at everyone and everything. He seemed both indifferent to my presence and terrified by my absence. When left alone even for a few minutes, he would howl mournfully. But he filled up the space my ex had occupied, and then some.

I also ordered a few items with the aim of remaking the apartment we had shared into my own home — a place just for me and the dog. Clicking away online, unencumbered by relationship compromise, I chose feminine pink linen bedding, sweet smelling candles, a couple of lamps to bring warmth to the living room and a tea set. My favorite purchase was a pretty blue sugar bowl, a $12 indulgence my ex would have hated.

I loved it from the moment it arrived. It fit in my hands like I had formed it myself from clay that smelled of damp earth on the forest floor. It was portly and perfect, glazed the blue of big skies and the wide-open ocean.

There was comfort in that bowl. I admired it every morning as it dished out its sweet nothings for my coffee, and it started to take on meaning in a way that can only happen when you have been locked inside your home for months, afraid to breathe.

The bowl became my pandemic talisman, representing gratitude for small things. It became a breakup talisman, too — an object of self-care and a symbol of putting my own wants first. It was a gift I gave to myself that was, at the time, everything I thought I needed. It was enough because I was enough.

The dog’s behavior leveled out as he began to feel at home with me. The howling stopped and we came to enjoy our daily walks together. Energetic and impulsive, he was a boisterous companion, but a welcome one.

Days wore into years, and the world began to edge back open. People could travel freely again and my ex no longer had to worry that he wouldn’t be able to see his mother and daughter. In this new world, he and I rediscovered each other and, slowly at first — and then all at once — came to agree that everything was just a little better when we were together. And the dog loved him.

We made the choice to start over and move together to a new home, a cozy Spanish cottage by the beach where we had a bedroom for his daughter to stay and a table for family dinner with his mother. A place where his things and my things would find a place together.

Unpacking from our move, I felt rising concern that I might have lost the sugar bowl. I finally found it on the bottom of the last box marked “kitchen” and immediately gave it a place of honor on the table in our new breakfast nook. There, it became the centerpiece of a mismatched still life: his orange cast-iron pepper grinder, our bamboo salt box and my sugar bowl in perfect blue. Even in that tableau of togetherness, it was part of what I understood as being the “me” in “us.”

Then I broke it.

Five years from the start of the pandemic, with my former exboyfriend still asleep in our bed, I reached blindly over the newspaper for my coffee and brushed the sugar bowl off the kitchen table with the back of my hand.

The dog immediately went for it, but I nudged him back as I picked up eight blue shards and a handful of sugar cubes from the floor. I would mend it, I decided. I would glue it all back together, and there would be new beauty in its imperfection; its cracked surface would tell a story of resilience.

As I rummaged through a kitchen drawer for some glue, the dog grew insistent about getting a taste of the potentially lethal sugar/pottery combo on the counter. His barking frayed my nerves in a way that surprised me. I knew my reaction was about more than just the noise.

But the sugar bowl was just a “thing,” I told myself. “Things” break. They don’t mean anything. They can be fixed or replaced.

Although, I had already checked, and this particular “thing” was discontinued. And damn, it did mean something. It was a small thing that represented a big thing: It was a symbol. Fighting off the dog and fumbling with the glue, I knocked the bowl to the floor a second time, and eight pieces became 12.

My partner, awakened by the commotion, emerged from the bedroom. The dog was still barking.

“Take him somewhere? Anywhere?” I hissed as I moved to protect the remains of my bowl from my now frantic, 150-lb dog. Clumsy with frustration, I whacked the bowl again, and when it hit the floor for a third time, the pieces turned to crumbles. A part of me broke, too.

Everything stopped. And the noise that came out of my chest then was guttural and deep. It echoed the scream I made 20 years earlier in the moments after I found out my father had died. It was a cry of loss and mourning so loud that the roofers next door paused their nailing.

“I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK,” I shouted.

But I wasn’t OK. At all. My dog, now more concerned about me than the sugar, thrust his huge snout into my side, almost knocking me to the ground. “Get out!” I shouted.

My partner, now well awake, put the dog on a leash and left without a word.

I collected myself enough to throw the pieces into the trash. Then I stormed into the bedroom, drew the curtains, dropped onto the bed and started to cry. Shuddering, gasping sobs for the shattered parts of my sugar bowl, for the shattered parts of me, for the earthy smell of the forest floor, for the big blue sky and the wideopen ocean, for the destruction of what had symbolized the “me” in “us.”

I had become utterly unmoored. Or maybe unhinged? It was just a sugar bowl, after all.

As I finally started to compose myself, I picked up my phone to apologize to my partner. And I saw there was a text from him. It read: “I found the manufacturer. A new one is on its way from England.”

I love my new sugar bowl. It isn’t quite the same. Although this one is also the blue of sea and sky and made of clay from the forest floor, its meaning to me has changed entirely. After the pandemic, the breakup, the reconciliation, the move, the acquisition of the giant dog and the accident that unraveled me, the bowl no longer symbolizes the “me” in “us.” It has become the “us” in “me.”

来源：左右图史