I wonder if it makes him sad that he never hears from me anymore.
I think about the exes I never hear from anymore. How it doesn’t make me sad that I never hear from them anymore. How I never hope they’ll text me, never feel happy when they do, maybe a tickled curiosity but not joy, when they do, how I don’t hope that I hear from them tomorrow, how tapping into that thought just makes me feel nothing at all.
He doesn’t know where I am right now. What I did today. How I’m feeling. And he’s okay with it.
We did everything together, watched everything together, but somehow both didn’t mention to each other that we’d each found the time to binge a series called Love. Over dinner, his little brother’s girlfriend, who worked in the entertainment industry, asked if he was excited for the second season premiere; I guess he’d discussed it with her… he couldn’t even say the word to me.
When I was 16, I found myself with boyfriend. He was perfect, and we dated for two years until I got curious about the world and other potential boys I hadn’t met yet in college.
Then, several years later, when I decided he was still perfect, I tried to be with him again, but he smelled weird to me. I asked him if he’d showered, put on deodorant, brushed his teeth, chewed gum, all affirmative, all moments before I met him, but he smelled too weird to me to kiss.
What a sad fucking day. Alone with a potential love of my life, too grossed out to kiss him ever again.
1. Sweatpants and a messy bun
2. A girlfriend who cooked
3. Large glasses
I rejected him twice. He was good looking and fun, but weird and maybe too into himself and a little oblivious to where he was dumb. He let ideas out that’d make me cringe, for example, “Small businesss are the backbone of our economy” because he was proud to work for a sales software company and also because he was a wannabe politician, who put on his profile that he almost ran for local office but later volunteered a complete explanation: he considered and unconsidered a run in one, singular conversation with his dad (but he took that consideration very! seriously). He bragged about his connections to his neighborhood, which were all of a friendly Marina bartender here or there. Eventually, he’d ask me for feedback on his personality.
He let me know that he saw me out at dinner, with friends at a sidewalk table on Chestnut Street. I was two seats away from a boy I had crushed on for months, whose eyes lit up when I sat down, whose eyes were still glowing like embers. Still, I responded to that text and flirted and after a long night out, sent the crush home in an Uber alone.
I saw Marina boy again today. Running along the water. I texted him to flirt. I don’t know why.
The next night:
“You know those things people say to you that describe you so perfectly, they stick with you? A roommate once described me as an expert at being an amateur because I try so many hobbies.”
He goaded each of us to say our own, pressing me that I must have one: I do, when someone sees me clearly, it’s a “you are very wise” after a deep conversation
There’s something really nice about getting into bed with yourself when your legs are freshly shaved, feeling the smooth skin of your left calf glide against your right shin, a coziness like clean sheets.