The cool September wind was playing a song as it passed over
my half-full Heineken bottle – my feet steps ahead of his just so he could see
how pretty I looked with my hair whipping across my face and my shorts covered
by a long sheer salmon-colored shirt, exposing my newly flattened stomach and
floral print black bra.
I’ve been stressed. I don’t usually notice stress, but it’s
evident because every bite of food, besides potato chips and McDonald’s makes
my stomach turn, so my body thins.
Every rough step, every dive the boys took into the alluring
dark waves, every burst of laughter and “come on man” while I marveled at the
stars I hadn’t seen in months, sent me into a spell of déjà vu.
It feels good to have déjà vu, but what does it mean? It’s
the phenomenon of having the strong sensation that an experience currently
being experienced has been experienced in the past. Most don’t understand what
is really happening when you experience déjà vu, and for the sake of prose I’ll
pretend as well.
It was as if I was supposed to be there. I was happy, very
happy.
He’s mad at me all the time.
I wonder if someone outside the situation would see it his
way. Maybe I am wicked. I try really hard to make him happy. Or at least I
think I do. I guess I’ve never been good at it.
When I want to put my lips all over him, when I want every
inch of my body to fuse with his, when I want our bones to grind and make dust
that soaks up the blood forming on the top of the skin on our necks… I’m turned
on now… But he thinks I’m too clingy and I ask too much.
But when I sip rum on The Looking Glass patio alone staring
at the beautiful people doing beautiful things and daydreaming about the beauty
they bring to my life, when I walk away to smoke without asking him to come,
when he asks me a question and I don’t answer to think about the answer… I
can’t give him enough attention.
He would rather sit for hours and look at others’ pictures
on Instagram and Facebook then see the picture in front of him that he can
reach out and hear, smell and touch. And I guess he wants me to do the same – having
relationships with others only online.
Missouri – like always – has been tumultuous. I broke up
with him. He’s begged, but my pride is stronger than my grace. It’s something I
should work on.I can’t eat and neither can he. I’m shaking and I see his hands twitching above the keyboard.
The difference is I’m sitting alone while he’s downstairs laughing with my friends, although the best part of him lingers to keep me preoccupied – the smell of his deodorant. It could practically induce my vomiting – I danced around Target while he held every men’s antiperspirant up to my nose until I was woozy and sick and giggling, while couples looked at us and wished they were in that simple, bothersome moment.
That mirage will forever trick me.
I love you, bailey.
ReplyDeleteYou anger the hell out of me.
ReplyDeleteBecause all of this, it's real. It builds inside you daily and vomits itself on the page. And I'd clamor for one second to see inside your mind. Because a persistent, terrifyingly beautiful memory exists within me. And if you only knew. If you only knew the half of it.
Damn you.