Bill was neither a particularly exciting lover, nor particularly experienced. He wasn’t a virgin, at least, unlike most of my college boyfriends, but he was gentle and so very eager. He discovered every inch of my body with enthusiastic hands; he met the curves of my breasts with thirsty lips. Grateful moans escaped his mouth as he entered me, and his chest heaved cathartic sighs. I welcomed his warmth, his curly auburn hair, his tongue with greedy fingers, a hungry mouth and legs wrapped tightly about his waist.

Our love making was not the belly-dropping rush of skiing down a hill, or the first tumbling wave of a day at the beach. It was the glowing fireplace at the lodge after wards; or the refreshing, blended drink at the beachside bar. Sex between us was never the peak, or even the climb, but the steady descent on the other side.

It was the kind of sex I needed at the time: A healing touch that brought me back into a world I wasn’t sure I belonged in, anymore. Sex can’t replace a loss, but this was the first time I realized how it can make one forget about it. We can ride out our pain in dimly lit rooms between 500-thread count sheets as we tickle the other person’s body in countless tongue flicks. For a little while, at least.

A year later, Bill moved in with me. My one bedroom flat ceased to be my apartment, and became ours. Our lives folded into one another’s the way our books and comics were intermingled on the bookshelves. We now showed up to D&D night as a unit, and returned to our home where the walls were decorated with framed versions of our favorite posters. Bill and I were the perfectly irritating gaming couple –the ones whose characters’ relationships mirrored their own.

We’d giggle at each other over handfuls of tossed dice, sharing jokes with punchlines only we understood. Much to Joel’s annoyance my half-orc, Glasha, never resisted an opportunity to flirt shamelessly with Bill’s Modin, and vice versa. At random intervals we jokingly referred to each other by our character names, even outside of our gaming sessions.

A stable job, a nice apartment, and a loyal partner with the potential for marriage at some point –that’s what we had. When nerds are told at the onset of puberty that our interests would doom us to being lifelong virgins and crazy cat ladies, that’s as much as any of us can hope for, right? Bill and I had a safe love. Two nerdy people who met through other nerdy people with minimal alcohol involved. I convinced myself for several years that this was enough, and that wanting more was vain.

But something that geeks do that I’m not sure the rest of the population knows, or most geeks themselves for that matter, is we have a tendency to associate another person with the fictional characters they play in video games, and tabletop roleplay. This is understandable and perfectly reasonable, until we begin to assume that these people, and their characters, are one and the same; which is exactly what geeks do. Countless nerd romances are established this way, and my last one was no exception.

Eventually our D&D campaign came to an end. The closing of a tabletop roleplay is as impressive, as it is shocking. I’d been playing Dungeons and Dragons since my senior year of high school, and in that time I’d started twice as many games as I’d finished, which I’d heard is fairly common. Maybe that’s why the end of a game still catches us off-guard, even when we know it’s coming.

For about two months our Saturday nights were free again, giving us a break while Joel worked on a concept for the next game. For a few weeks Bill and I still kept up our inside jokes about Modin and Glasha. We even shamelessly brought their identities into bed. One night we moaned these names into the heavy air of our bedroom, as we grinded our bodies against one another in fevered passion before bursting simultaneously into release. Then afterwards we laid next to each other not speaking for longer than usual. The only sound in the room was our ragged breaths, slowly returning to even sighs.

Something had changed. I realized it, and the look in Bill’s eyes suggested that he did too. Neither of us said a word, perhaps because neither of us understood what had changed, yet. But that was the last time we referred to one another as Modin and Glasha.

Bill usually left decision making up to me. He’d ask me if I wanted to go on a date, but it was my job to figure out what those date plans would consist of; he apparently believed that his contribution ended with a suggestion. Our life in the bedroom wasn’t much different. He’d obligingly go along with whatever I chose, and at first this was great. Having dated plenty of men with little interest in my personal desires this seemed a refreshing change. I think he said “whatever you like, honey,” and “it’s up to you, baby,” as many times as he said “I love you,” over the four year course of our relationship. In the first two years I thought this behavior was cute and sensitive.

In simple matters like which restaurant to pick or what movie to watch, it really wasn’t a big deal. But when he approached questions like opening a joint bank account, or moving into a bigger apartment, with the same passiveness I realized he was being neither cute nor sensitive, he was just being indecisive. Bill didn’t submit to me in the bedroom out of concern for my needs, he was just being lazy.

Or maybe he just doesn’t know how… I had thought at the time. If that were the case it seemed the reasonable thing to do was talk about it. After all, how could he know that I grew weary of being the decision-maker? How could he know that I didn’t always want to be the one in-charge? How could he know that I could maintain my independence and still want a Dominant hand to guide me? How could he know that I was tired of always being on top?

So I brought it up one Friday evening over platefuls of spaghetti. I’d planned out everything in my head beforehand, and yet still stumbled over the words. When I was finished he looked dejectedly down at his plate.

“I don’t understand…” He shook his head. “I thought I was doing what you wanted…”

Of course we had the talks. The ones that start out calm, get a little heated, and are soon filled with every gripe we’ve had about partner for the past three months. The kind of talks that usually end with one’s partner promising to “do better.” And for about 2-3 weeks, things would be better. So much so that we even find ourselves wondering if our concerns had just been in our heads this whole time… Just before our partners slip back into their old habits again. A month or two of tolerance, and excuses, followed by another talk, more promises, 2-3 weeks of “doing better,” and then the cycle starts all over again. Such had been the last year and a half of mine and Bill’s relationship.

I’d heard once before that the number one reason for divorce was not due to a cheating partner, money or political and religious differences, although these matters were often brought up in court. But no, it was none of these things. The number one reason for divorce was, of all things, one partner leaving the toothpaste cap off. I don’t know if this is true, or just modern parable, however its sentiment was valid. Break-ups were not always caused by some dramatic, life-altering event like what we see in movies, but more often by subtle idiosyncrasies characteristic of us all, yet varied by individual.

A friend of mine broke off a five-year-long relationship with her girlfriend over the fact that she “stole all of the covers at night.” My parents divorced because my Mom was sick of my Dad not cleaning out the sink after he shaved. I had a guy dump me once because I have a weird habit of leaving cups around the house, rather than taking them to the sink, when I was finished. All of us have weird quirks that others may, or may not, be able to tolerate. Unfortunately these quirks usually don’t start to bother us until we’ve already become emotionally invested in someone.

But like the steady drip of a leaky faucet, the light scraping of a tree branch on the bedroom window, or the tapping of someone’s fingertips on a tabletop in an otherwise quiet room, these things become increasingly harder to ignore. Once we do realize these unusual behavior traits we can make a choice –we can tolerate them or we can react. Depending on the severity of the latter is often how break-ups happen.

For me, it was a pair of shoes. Not the outlandish, overpriced pair in the back of my closet that I’d worn only once. (Although even I had to admit Bill would have been almost justified in leaving me for buying them.) It was actually a pair of Bill’s shoes. Bill only owned 2, maybe 3 pairs, of shoes at any given time. Meanwhile my entire closet floor was lined with them. I used almost any excuse to buy new ones, and Bill used almost any excuse NOT to buy new ones. He wore them until the soles were little more than tissue paper, and even then he complained the whole way to Payless.

Once he found a pair he liked, however, he would wear them exclusively, including around the house. This was a strange practice to me. As much as I loved shoes, the first thing I wanted to do when I got home was take them off. Eventually Bill would take them off however, but never with any uniformity of time, and rarely in the same place –he kicked them off his feet whenever and wherever suited his fancy. Hours later he’d be scouring the house looking for them, and I’d always be the one to find them, sputtering curses into the carpet with stubbed toes and bruised knees.

One Sunday morning I emerged from the kitchen carrying a full cup of hot coffee steaming in my favorite mug. Having been up late the night before, doing some writing, I was anxiously awaiting that first, invigorating sip. I had even spent a little extra time adding just the right amount of whipped cream on top and garnishing it with a drizzle of chocolate syrup. Seconds later my robe, face and carpet were drenched in the barista-quality concoction. I was glad that at least my mug hadn’t been broken during my fall –it was clenched in a death grip in my hand even though it was now empty. The culprit of this debacle was none other than Bill’s pair of tattered Chuck Taylors.

Bill had been in the shower at the time, and I was grateful that he didn’t hear the shamefully messy tantrum I threw. When he emerged he did not ask how his shoes had ended up in the far corner of the living room, nor did he ask about the two mysterious dents in the wall just above them. Bill always had a strong sense of self-preservation.

Okay, realistically I didn’t break up with Bill just over a pair of shoes, any more than my friend split up with her partner over stolen covers on a cold night. My parents didn’t divorce over razor shavings, and I’m fairly certain that the short-term boyfriend I had in college just used my cluttered cups as an excuse to date someone else. These minor issues are not the sole reason we end a relationship. They are just the proverbial straw responsible for breaking the unfortunate camel’s back –the catalyst of an already collapsing arrangement.