The two years we dated, I was trying to get over him. Months later, I realized he’d been blocked from my newsfeed the whole time: symbolic of how tepidly I adapted to the relationship, always balancing with my one foot ashore, eager to jump, but fearful of getting weighted down to the pit at the bottom


The chair

It was raining, the day they visited, so we watched a movie and then another and then another. He sat to my right in the blueish greyish leather chair, jittering around, unsettled and bored, sprawled out, stretching far past the chair’s structure with his very long legs. He was silent, and I was stiff. I dared not look at him, more than every hour or so, scared to so obviously move my head away from the entertainment, and away from his more friendly friend to my left, to investigate where he was in his world of Twitter and exasperation.

He’d sat quite upright in that place, months and months ago, when he settled there and tugged me on to his naked body. When I gave him my keys for the weekend, he had teased, “I’m going to sit in your chair with my naked butt,” and he did so, but more politely than first implied.

He did not want to be back, in that chair, now.