(no subject)
I saw her today.
We acted like friends who'd gone away for college, but when she told me of the things she'd accomplished in her life - the spaces in the conversation normally reserved for promotions at work and marriage and kids - it was filled with all the things she hoped would make herself sound functional and rational. We both cut our hair. And while we never said it, it was a sign of mourning, a tribute to the dead. She had stayed busy. She hadn't slept since I'd left. And though she tip-toed around it, I knew she had seen other girls. It didn't hurt me. I had slept with a girl seven years older than I. I felt no remorse.
We were all smiles. This, of course, did not reflect anything. At some point I saw her eyes become glassy, and she fought not to bite her lip. When she looked at me she wanted to bawl. She was so sorry. So sorry.
I couldn't look at her, it reminded me that I was so sorry. So sorry.
I tried hard to distance any underlying meaning in the conversation about the things we felt. I wanted to pretend that we had left for college. The words she spoke were saying more. Why couldn't they be about mortgages and landscaping and boat rentals?
She invited me in for a movie. I had hoped to relieve myself of my guilt in the car on the way home, exalting my self-hate and pity towards her with uncontrollable blubbering. I stayed. Half way through she asked to hold me. I hated myself for not wanting her to. I let her. I hated myself because she loved me so much, because she needs me so much, because touching me made her heart race in her chest. I hated myself because I could not offer this back. Hate, in the dirtiest of ways. I hated myself. Feeling the flutter of her pulse made my eyelids burn. I thought of the girl I had fucked while I'd been away to college. I thought of every dirty text message I sent her. I thought of myself on top of her, naked, grinding into her strap-on. This fought the tears. I redirected my attention towards the movie. I was distracted only until her thumb started stroking my arm, a diminutive projection of embracing me vehemently. I focused hard on the thought of the dildo. She slid her fingers into my hand; she squeezed. Her head rested on my shoulder. The dildo. She loved me so much. The dildo. I blinked a tear down my cheek, thankful that my moment of weakness was beyond her field of view.
As I was leaving she asked for a kiss. I could not kiss her on the mouth, or look at her in the eye. I would see her at next year's reunion.
We acted like friends who'd gone away for college, but when she told me of the things she'd accomplished in her life - the spaces in the conversation normally reserved for promotions at work and marriage and kids - it was filled with all the things she hoped would make herself sound functional and rational. We both cut our hair. And while we never said it, it was a sign of mourning, a tribute to the dead. She had stayed busy. She hadn't slept since I'd left. And though she tip-toed around it, I knew she had seen other girls. It didn't hurt me. I had slept with a girl seven years older than I. I felt no remorse.
We were all smiles. This, of course, did not reflect anything. At some point I saw her eyes become glassy, and she fought not to bite her lip. When she looked at me she wanted to bawl. She was so sorry. So sorry.
I couldn't look at her, it reminded me that I was so sorry. So sorry.
I tried hard to distance any underlying meaning in the conversation about the things we felt. I wanted to pretend that we had left for college. The words she spoke were saying more. Why couldn't they be about mortgages and landscaping and boat rentals?
She invited me in for a movie. I had hoped to relieve myself of my guilt in the car on the way home, exalting my self-hate and pity towards her with uncontrollable blubbering. I stayed. Half way through she asked to hold me. I hated myself for not wanting her to. I let her. I hated myself because she loved me so much, because she needs me so much, because touching me made her heart race in her chest. I hated myself because I could not offer this back. Hate, in the dirtiest of ways. I hated myself. Feeling the flutter of her pulse made my eyelids burn. I thought of the girl I had fucked while I'd been away to college. I thought of every dirty text message I sent her. I thought of myself on top of her, naked, grinding into her strap-on. This fought the tears. I redirected my attention towards the movie. I was distracted only until her thumb started stroking my arm, a diminutive projection of embracing me vehemently. I focused hard on the thought of the dildo. She slid her fingers into my hand; she squeezed. Her head rested on my shoulder. The dildo. She loved me so much. The dildo. I blinked a tear down my cheek, thankful that my moment of weakness was beyond her field of view.
As I was leaving she asked for a kiss. I could not kiss her on the mouth, or look at her in the eye. I would see her at next year's reunion.