We’re Just The Girls You Fuck And Forget

Riccardo Fissore

The moonlight casts a shadow. The streetlights are burnt out and all flashing simultaneously. There are no streetlights to guide us home, not in the suburbs. I use the moon to decipher the darkness and decide the intersection is safe to pass.

My heel hits the pedal slowly. I’m not accustom to driving in shoes like these. I am somewhat more cautious than my usual reckless self. I am careful not to hit the gas pedal too hard and turn the hands of the wheel slowly, letting it glide through my fingers with ease. The seat is too far, the mirrors are unadjusted; I am not in my habitual car, but an overbearing truck that seems too vast for a girl like me.

Nonetheless I must drive because the other one is too intoxicated to even sit upright in his seat. He’s slurring. I should have stopped him a few hours ago, probably taken those drinks from his hand. But he would have brushed aside my will and reassured me otherwise. We all like to think we are right, that we are fine. Universal sense of ego I guess.

He proclaims sentences I can’t make out. Or maybe I choose to ignore. I’m half listening, trying to navigate the anxiety of driving this stupid truck in heels 4 inches too big. I look back at the clock and the time flashes 2am. I calculate the short time left until work and sigh at the acceptance of another sleepless night.

He tries to narrate a story but his drunken stupor jumps to scattered plot points. Something about the bartender and friends, but I don’t really catch on. “And then they asked me about you.” He says quietly. “But I was like she’s my baby sister. And they stopped looking at you that way.”

I laugh at him. “I can take care of myself.” I tell him. But he doesn’t hear me. “And I kept telling them, I kept telling them.” He hangs on to each syllable. “You weren’t that type.”

“Who is that type then?” I ask, not sure if I want to hear the answer. His response is all scattered and confusing. He throws me names and examples of girls I have no recollection of. “And who are they all?” I ask quietly. “Just girls you fuck and nothing else.”

His delivery isn’t as eloquent, but the words silence me. I know I should stop him and steer the conversation to safe territory, but I don’t. My hands sit fixed on the steering wheel and my gaze settled on the dark roads ahead.

“You’re smart and shit, you know. Like fuck, like the wall of awards Dad has plastered.” I want to interject and point out his bias, we share blood and it would hinder his perspective. But he doesn’t let me and continues on. “But those girls man were just…” and he concludes with profane diction. I cringe slightly.

He gets distracted by his phone and he answers someone in his drunk slurs. I tune it all out. There’s heaviness in my chest and my head hurts from a week of sleepless nights. I don’t have the strength to correct him. I only whisper my argument to myself. But they deserve love too, the girls you just fuck. I am equally disgusted by such a distinction and saddened by his acceptance of it. The girls you fuck, the ones you brush aside as dismissible come sunrise, are human too. They are someone’s sisters too. They are worthy too. I wonder of each of the names he listed and the parameters of their stories. I cry a little inside for each of them and the perishable definition they are given. Because contrary to what he believes, I am no exception. I am not immune to such considerations. He himself pointed it out earlier, about the boys who starred at me earlier, the ones he thinks he corrected and rectified. But even when he turned and left, they came at me with their desperation and hunger. They didn’t succeed at the chase of course, I brushed them aside but their opinion of me was no different than what he describes. Their gaze burnt the title to my bones. We are all no different; we are all just girls for short fused entertainment.

We are all the girls you just fuck and forget. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

I have thematic discussions with my inanimate monkey.

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