In Which I'm Sorry Tommy
I'm sorry Tommy
I sat there on the couch last night
in your little house.
The kitchen has green walls and opens into the front room
which has yellow walls.
There's some terrible Monetish sailboat replica hanging above the TV
and a black-and-white poster of some street in France with only one colored thing in it
a red bicycle.
I hate that poster.
You were dicking around on your electric guitar
that you own
even though you don't know the first thing about music
the guitar that you strum rakingly, rudely
even though you can't read music
and you work at a music store
but you can barely play that guitar--
you play it by ear, following your playing partner up and down scales, and badly.
I felt sick while I sat on that couch
and avoided eye contact
because you're so impressed with impressing me on that guitar so much
but I felt so heavy. So unenchanted.
Like
like I wanted to fall on the floor
and roll all the way home.
I wanted to yelp
and take the guitar off of you
and hold it enfolded and tell
you to leave it alone.
That you were insulting me and it.
Because you were.
It hurt so much for a small second that I didn't even allow it to.
As you "jammed" with your cousin
I bored my eyes around the room
letting my brain wrap itself around anything but
what you were doing.
I finally settled my eyes on
the blinking light of the rice cooker
in your kitchen, behind the set of garden
furniture and the fridge filled with your almond milk and your unclassy
roommate's Hard Lemonade.
The blinking red light on the rice cooker
in the kitchen
said RED black RED black RED black
to me.
And finally. I was just ready to say
NO.
To say
I'm not interested.
To run away from a small house
filled with guitars and pedals and liquor
the cheapened reproduction.
Like someone out there
decided to throw it
in my face
in so subtle a way
that nobody would understand why it was so upsetting to me now.
It's a shame
because I like you.
There are so many things about you, Tommy, that I admire.
You're a fine kisser too.
I was annoyed
when we got outside into your car
because I would have liked to get to know you.
But I can't.
I can't.
I can't.
I can't.
And I felt no remorse leaving you there in your car.
I only even feel a tiny bit now.
You really did meet me at the wrong time.
I'm sorry Tommy.
Usually if someone came along
and was fascinated with me as usual
and made me pizzas and
took me to get PHO and
liked John Hughes the way I do and
had fantastic hair and
sincere Christlike love and
Roy Lichtenstein and
Woodstock and chocolate Twizzlers and cardigans
and pretty shoes and affectionate nose-bumps
I would slide effortlessly into that puzzle piece.
That shape.
I would become that shape so unconsciously.
But right now I can't do it.
I don't know why but I can't.
I'm sorry. But I really feel nothing about it.
Absolutely nothing, as long as you go away.
Today is nice because I am alone.
I sat there on the couch last night
in your little house.
The kitchen has green walls and opens into the front room
which has yellow walls.
There's some terrible Monetish sailboat replica hanging above the TV
and a black-and-white poster of some street in France with only one colored thing in it
a red bicycle.
I hate that poster.
You were dicking around on your electric guitar
that you own
even though you don't know the first thing about music
the guitar that you strum rakingly, rudely
even though you can't read music
and you work at a music store
but you can barely play that guitar--
you play it by ear, following your playing partner up and down scales, and badly.
I felt sick while I sat on that couch
and avoided eye contact
because you're so impressed with impressing me on that guitar so much
but I felt so heavy. So unenchanted.
Like
like I wanted to fall on the floor
and roll all the way home.
I wanted to yelp
and take the guitar off of you
and hold it enfolded and tell
you to leave it alone.
That you were insulting me and it.
Because you were.
It hurt so much for a small second that I didn't even allow it to.
As you "jammed" with your cousin
I bored my eyes around the room
letting my brain wrap itself around anything but
what you were doing.
I finally settled my eyes on
the blinking light of the rice cooker
in your kitchen, behind the set of garden
furniture and the fridge filled with your almond milk and your unclassy
roommate's Hard Lemonade.
The blinking red light on the rice cooker
in the kitchen
said RED black RED black RED black
to me.
And finally. I was just ready to say
NO.
To say
I'm not interested.
To run away from a small house
filled with guitars and pedals and liquor
the cheapened reproduction.
Like someone out there
decided to throw it
in my face
in so subtle a way
that nobody would understand why it was so upsetting to me now.
It's a shame
because I like you.
There are so many things about you, Tommy, that I admire.
You're a fine kisser too.
I was annoyed
when we got outside into your car
because I would have liked to get to know you.
But I can't.
I can't.
I can't.
I can't.
And I felt no remorse leaving you there in your car.
I only even feel a tiny bit now.
You really did meet me at the wrong time.
I'm sorry Tommy.
Usually if someone came along
and was fascinated with me as usual
and made me pizzas and
took me to get PHO and
liked John Hughes the way I do and
had fantastic hair and
sincere Christlike love and
Roy Lichtenstein and
Woodstock and chocolate Twizzlers and cardigans
and pretty shoes and affectionate nose-bumps
I would slide effortlessly into that puzzle piece.
That shape.
I would become that shape so unconsciously.
But right now I can't do it.
I don't know why but I can't.
I'm sorry. But I really feel nothing about it.
Absolutely nothing, as long as you go away.
Today is nice because I am alone.