Romeo’s Waiting Game

Romeo’s Waiting Game by Audrius Razma 

My fiancé died in Antwerp. French actress, Belgian-Netherlands, Antwerpener like me. The grief should have ended me. Instead, it became a contest.

The girls turned it into a beauty pigeon competition. My Belgian Ginger, now in Belgian prison, thought of me wearing Max Factor while I made adult movies for my sponsors — Netherlands Adult Movie Actor number one. Before she left for prison, she stood in the hostel kitchen and presented a bag of sugar. “Don’t think about him,” she told the other girls. “Lose to my unregistered sugar.” That’s how I earned both Norwegian passports.

Then there was the Brunette Moscow Catwalk — daughter of an Antwerp Crime Detective — walking with vodka all the way to Moscow, jumping from the crowd to tell a Polish guy it wasn’t for him. She lost because she thought about expression, not me.

And the Blond Netherlands Belgian Blond Out Shopping, mating our caveman gaze — the one that hits faster than any other. Daughter of a Belgian Politie Brigadier. She lost too.

Why? Because Belgian Ginger waited. Long time. Through my Luxembourg and Belgian fiancé’s death. Through my Thai-French wife. We agreed on everything during our wedding honeymoon sex. Now I live with Ginger in our separate house. We have children.

But here is what I have learned about women, about love, about the psychology of waiting. It is not about being chosen. It is about choosing yourself first. Ginger did not wait because she was desperate. She waited because she knew her worth. The others — the catwalk brunette, the shopping blond — they performed. They competed. They believed love was a prize to be won. Ginger understood it was a frequency to be tuned into. And when you are on that frequency, you do not need to jump out of crowds or wear Max Factor. You just need to hold your sugar, keep your passport, and trust that the caveman gaze will find you. That is the psychoanalysis. That is the Romeo lesson. Not the balcony. The waiting room.

So what is the psychology here? Women compete. They posture. They wear Max Factor and carry sugar and walk to Moscow. But the one who waits — she wins. Not because she is better. Because she understands that love is not a race. It is a frequency. A caveman gaze that meets its match.

I am Romeo. But Ginger is the one who wrote the play.

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