By David Himmel

My heart has broken enough times. I’m not in the market for more heartbreak. But, because I’ve traversed the River of Lost Love before, I know that eventually, a port will appear downstream and I’ll pay the price to slip in. Each time I do, I think, This time will be different. I’m different. She’s different. This is going to be okay.

And it is. Until it isn’t.

It’s been two months or so since President Joe Biden stepped away from reelection anointing Vice President Kamala Harris to run instead. I was excited by this. Biden needed to go. And when the news broke, I was driving back from Grand Rapids where I witnessed a Trump rally taking shape, so I had a hearty laugh now that the Trump campaign’s, and his supporters’ preferred approach was to “Fuck Biden” would no longer hold wind. I was also concerned because I had never been a big fan of Harris.

Her campaign for president in 2020 was childish at best, a monstrous disaster at worst. She was all over the place, focused more on creating or hyping a meme than she was about communicating her plan for leading America. Sure, she was the fun aunt, but the fun aunt who lost a fight with a box of wine and thought JoJo Siwa was cool. I felt she should have stayed in the Senate and maybe held out for a Supreme Court nomination.

As the weeks went on, my excitement overtook my concern. I was happy to see her rise to candidacy rallying and unifying the Democratic Party in a way we hadn’t seen since 2008. Perhaps her candidacy would bring the action the Democrats so badly need. And when she took the stage to officially accept (and receive—sort of) the party’s nomination, I was into it. Like that downstream river port, here was a new and interesting woman. She was bold, certain, well-spoken, charming but not trying to be cool. She seemed natural, confident. She was presidential. When she debated Donald Trump, I saw more of that. And that’s where I fell for her.

There I was, mostly a malcontent of a man, a desiccated husk beaten to annoyed indifference by American politics and most certainly the Democratic Party’s pitiful attempts at wooing voters. Kamala pulled me out of that. I was enamored with how she handled herself against a bumbling, but still calculated man-child like Trump. And like a new paramour, I was wowed by every expression, by each mannerism, by the way she said words. New love is always like this.

Until it isn’t.

Kamala had the great benefit of a fantastic summer romance working in her favor. A short lived, white hot affair that would end before it could burn out. With about three months from candidacy to Election Day, I wouldn’t grow tired of Kamala. Neither would America. The joy she and her campaign were trafficking would carry us to a victory. Then we could settle into the day-to-day doldrums of romance. Probably fall out of love and elect someone else in 2028. I was fine with that. A flash-in-the-pan, summer fling was exactly what I needed and I was sure Kamala would be the one to mend my worn down politically-engaged heart. I was so sure. I even told all my friends about her.

But, as love does, it doesn’t always act according to plan. There’s still time on the Summer Fling Shot Clock, but the white hot heat I feel for Kamala is more smoldering ashes. All those cute things she did and said already feel real tired. They feel empty. They feel familiar. They feel unnatural, unconfident. Empty promises, vague talking points, the inability to answer the most basic questions, a seeming refusal to provide even a hint of how to her what.

I’m back in my little boat navigating the River of Lost Love. I’m not as apathetic as I was before my love affair with Kamala, and I have her to thank for that. I want to see her succeed and I hope she can shift gears and be more forthcoming with her how-tos and policy positions in the next few weeks. That’s what I want. That’s what I need. I need my lover to be more than just the thing that isn’t Trump. I find myself longing for Elizabeth Warren. She had a plan for everything. Plus, I’ve never had a fling with an Indigenous American before.