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.