Drinks. Sitting. Our legs were touching slightly more than normal, which I guess means “we’re going to fuck” in this adult era
I’ve been dating like I do laundry: I do it because society says I should, and I know if I put it off for long enough, I’ll regret it, but it always feels like it takes up too much time
“You are the loudest person,” he said to me, from across the circle, as I wailed at the bondfire, the final night of camp, the second or third sentence he ever said to me, after 4 weeks, for 6 years, summing me up: “You talk loud, you laugh loud, and apparently, you cry the loudest, too,” at 15, I was a virgin.
He was right.
I went on a date. He was remarkably fine, but as he spoke, I just kept picturing his face being sculpted out of play dough or clay, droopy and puffy in some spots, with sharp, knife-defined edges in others
He almost moved across the country to take a job in California. We never discussed what would happen if he moved across the country. I don’t think we’re the type of couple who would do long distance well.
At first I thought it was dishonest that we never discussed it, that we could be broken up right now yet we continue going on as if that isn’t so. I thought it was dishonest at first, but then I remembered the randomness of faith and life and chance. Maybe moving or not moving and dating or not dating and meeting or not meeting aren’t any less random, anyway.
I split my hymen at 13 having phone sex with a lipgloss. Nobody knows that. I paused at the sight of the fresh, red blood, knowing what it represented, knowing what I lost. Embarrassed, I tried to go on talking, to not let on to what had happened, to how I’d changed, undesirably. I stared at the skinny long, tube: a L’Oréal in a brownish pink shade I didn’t like, with a thick, gold rib where the cap met the tube. It wasn’t the first time I’d used it.