Last night
I was doing fine until someone said your name last night.
I was in that bar I used to live six houses down from, the one
where we met. It was lit in that same red glow, and filled with
the bartenders working downtown, making their way back up the
hill and then the stumble drunk walk home to crash on eachothers
couches, after a stop into the local mexican fast food shop on the corner.
I was standing, and my jacket smelled like cigarettes, I had just
finished a game of dominoes with Willem and leaning against the bar when
this bleached blonde woman with a bob and slouchy tanktop that showed off her
tattoos, was introduced to me.
She had spoken to Willem and Troy before, but she stumbled up again
to give him a hug, and I waved and said Hello, I'm Katie, what was your name again?
She said I'm Michelle. We know eachother. You know. I apologized and she said John
had introduced us. John who? I know a lot of Johns. John you know JOHN.
Jon Francese? John Resnick? No John Mattos. John Mattos?
Remember? I've been best friends with that guy for like, ten years.
Oh. John. She turned away for me to mutter.
John Mattos. That fucking guy. That's the guy that broke my heart.
Willem heard me say it.
I turned around and I needed a cigarette. Quickly.
Tom heard it in my voice.
GIve me one second, he said.
He turned me around and marched me out the door.
Handed me a cigarette.
Told me how much he loves me.
Told me that we are the same person.
Gives me an anecdote about being attracted to a woman and then meeting her brother and
not knowing what to do because he is attrracted to them both.
And I giggle because he knows I would never harm or judge him for that.
He lets me kick at the wall for a little bit.
I finished my cigarette.
I can't go into that bar anymore.
You win, it's your turf now.
I am defeated. There isn't enough cigarettes in the world.
There isn't enough whiskey behind that counter.
There aren't enough drunken walks home with coworkers that end up with both of us fucking loud enough
for the neighbors to hear. Depraved fucking when you are arguing and wrestling and collapsing in sweat
waking up the next day to a dirty apartment, an empty bottle of gin, your clothes crumpled at the foot of the bed.
Laughing at the stack of ones on the nightstand from the tips you made the night before saying you havent been able to
go to the bank and deposit that yet for rent.
Then running into eachother nights later kissing and telling eachother we shouldn't do this anymore.
That we can't keep sleeping together. Because we are broken. And it reminds us of that.
For some god damn reason, you still make me shake at the mention of your name.
For some god damn reason, I can't let this fucking go.
And the worst part about it is not being able to explain to someone why.
I was always the one to leave first, to never fully commit.
I was always the one to say I love you last or not at all.
I was the one being proposed to, being impregnated.
I was the one that songs were written about,
and restraining orders were written to protect.
I was chased down the streets of San Francisco,
fucked in the back of my first loves Jeep the only time it rained
the March of 2003
And it never made me feel weak, or desperate, or alone.
I never felt so wretched until now. I never blocked someone's
cellphone number, never cried to strangers, never blacked out at a concert.
I feel sick inside. I feel wrung out. Like a leather jacket someone tried to wash like laundry in
a river bed, bashed over a rock. I feel sick like the only sounds I know how to make are the sounds of my fingers tapping
keys, or the scratch of a pencil.
I was in that bar I used to live six houses down from, the one
where we met. It was lit in that same red glow, and filled with
the bartenders working downtown, making their way back up the
hill and then the stumble drunk walk home to crash on eachothers
couches, after a stop into the local mexican fast food shop on the corner.
I was standing, and my jacket smelled like cigarettes, I had just
finished a game of dominoes with Willem and leaning against the bar when
this bleached blonde woman with a bob and slouchy tanktop that showed off her
tattoos, was introduced to me.
She had spoken to Willem and Troy before, but she stumbled up again
to give him a hug, and I waved and said Hello, I'm Katie, what was your name again?
She said I'm Michelle. We know eachother. You know. I apologized and she said John
had introduced us. John who? I know a lot of Johns. John you know JOHN.
Jon Francese? John Resnick? No John Mattos. John Mattos?
Remember? I've been best friends with that guy for like, ten years.
Oh. John. She turned away for me to mutter.
John Mattos. That fucking guy. That's the guy that broke my heart.
Willem heard me say it.
I turned around and I needed a cigarette. Quickly.
Tom heard it in my voice.
GIve me one second, he said.
He turned me around and marched me out the door.
Handed me a cigarette.
Told me how much he loves me.
Told me that we are the same person.
Gives me an anecdote about being attracted to a woman and then meeting her brother and
not knowing what to do because he is attrracted to them both.
And I giggle because he knows I would never harm or judge him for that.
He lets me kick at the wall for a little bit.
I finished my cigarette.
I can't go into that bar anymore.
You win, it's your turf now.
I am defeated. There isn't enough cigarettes in the world.
There isn't enough whiskey behind that counter.
There aren't enough drunken walks home with coworkers that end up with both of us fucking loud enough
for the neighbors to hear. Depraved fucking when you are arguing and wrestling and collapsing in sweat
waking up the next day to a dirty apartment, an empty bottle of gin, your clothes crumpled at the foot of the bed.
Laughing at the stack of ones on the nightstand from the tips you made the night before saying you havent been able to
go to the bank and deposit that yet for rent.
Then running into eachother nights later kissing and telling eachother we shouldn't do this anymore.
That we can't keep sleeping together. Because we are broken. And it reminds us of that.
For some god damn reason, you still make me shake at the mention of your name.
For some god damn reason, I can't let this fucking go.
And the worst part about it is not being able to explain to someone why.
I was always the one to leave first, to never fully commit.
I was always the one to say I love you last or not at all.
I was the one being proposed to, being impregnated.
I was the one that songs were written about,
and restraining orders were written to protect.
I was chased down the streets of San Francisco,
fucked in the back of my first loves Jeep the only time it rained
the March of 2003
And it never made me feel weak, or desperate, or alone.
I never felt so wretched until now. I never blocked someone's
cellphone number, never cried to strangers, never blacked out at a concert.
I feel sick inside. I feel wrung out. Like a leather jacket someone tried to wash like laundry in
a river bed, bashed over a rock. I feel sick like the only sounds I know how to make are the sounds of my fingers tapping
keys, or the scratch of a pencil.