An ex-boyfriend writes me a PM on Facebook. He says I seem to have changed. Can we maybe talk? Can we maybe try to revive a sort of friendship?

Of course I’ve changed. It’s been twenty years since I became the dumpsite of his emotions, since I was the one to give him a drumroll, though he was a cheat. He’s a pianist, a composer, a professor. I’m no slouch myself; I met him in Illinois, the summer after I earned my MFA, the summer before I moved to Michigan for my first gig as a professor.

We did things long-distance for three years. Mostly me driving to Illinois, since in Michigan, I didn’t have a piano. He said his hands were precious. Though sometimes, after he finally confessed and cried about his sex addiction, he complained his hands were sore from nights of sharing, showing and stroking parts of his body and exchanging certain words all night on his computer. Fantasizing about the young girls he taught. Their bodies on his bench, their fingers on his keys, obeying his instruction.

Our break-up wasn’t pretty. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t changed much.

And of course I’ve changed. I own a house, I have my dogs, I have a garden, I’ve published books, I’m an Ironman, I raised my son who is now a drill instructor. My son, who was in high school when I dated this man, would come with me to Illinois when we’d go back there—and he’d stay with his friend. He never stayed with me and that then boyfriend. My son admitted to me shortly after we broke up that he never really liked him.

On a machine at home, I row. I imagine being back in Prague, where I became fond of the row. From my ear buds, I hear music by Max Richter and similar composers. (The listening to the ex’s music is so far behind me.) Rowing brings me back to roaming the Prague streets alone, finding hidden treasures, seeing parts of history, a world so much bigger, wider, and important. I imagine being part of a regatta, paddling in the river, ocean, sea. The air on my face, the power of my arms, the fluid underneath me.

I write back to this man, though I think perhaps it’s better to ignore him. I say, Yes, I’ve changed. You probably wouldn’t like me. I’ve learned to be assertive. You cheated. Then you lied. Our relationship was riddled in deceit.

I imagine being an agronomist, studying the soil, its properties, the farm where I grew up, where my dad would rotate crops. Sometimes one would just quit thriving. So you’d move onto another and just let it rest.

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Kim Chinquee’s ninth book is Contact with the Wild (MadHat Press); her novella I Thought of England is forthcoming with Baobab Press and her collection Octopus Arms is forthcoming with MadHat Press. She serves in editing roles for New World Writing Quarterly, Midwest Review, ELJ (Elm Leaves Journal) and Pithead Chapel. A three-time Pushcart Prize recipient, she’s a competitive triathlete and lives with her three dogs in Buffalo, NY.