This Is How We Let Each Other Slip Away

joelgonewild
joelgonewild

Maybe we meet on Tinder, through a friend, just by coincidence. I laugh at your jokes, you smile at my stories, we have a good time and I touch your arm to let you know I’m interested.

We stall so that it won’t end, nervous about whether or not to keep the date going in private. You stumble over your words, I push my hair back self-consciously. I worry that going home with you sends the wrong message but I want to, I so want to. You worry that asking me over makes you seem like a douche bag, when really you just want to enjoy my laughter a little bit longer. We decide to go to your place for another beer, I slowly take in the things decorating your place, you watch me as if I’m the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen.

You kiss me on the couch and I can taste the hops on your lips.

I pull, you push and the next thing I know we’re making out like two teenagers in high school. You find the will-power to stop while I motion to the clock seeing that it’s 2 am. How’d time past by so quickly without me noticing? You order me an Uber because you’re a gentleman, or at least I think so. You tell me to text you when I make it home safe and I joke that you’ll know because the Uber will have ended.

You wake up wondering if you dreamed I was there or not.

We both lie in our respective beds wishing we had woken up together. I want to see you again, soon. You want to see me again, now. We both try not to text each other first but I give in because aren’t we old enough not to play games? You send me flirty emoji’s, I tell you my plans for the day. I go out to brunch with friends but can’t help checking my phone every two seconds while I downplay how much I think I could like you. I want to keep you to myself because, well, these things never last but I let my friends pry anyway.

You busy yourself at home. Video games, cleaning, sitting on the couch with your dog wondering if possibly I could be the one who turns into something more. I made it through the vetting process after all, I was attractive enough for you to consider talking to me, I was interesting enough for you to ask me out, our chemistry was strong enough that inviting me home made sense and now, well now I’m in your head and you kind of like it. You wonder if you should ask me on a proper date, the kind where we both go to dinner and fill the entire evening with conversations that we’re so engrossed in our waitress has to ask too many times if we’re ready to order.

I agree to see you again the next night. I have a hard time pretending I’m less excited than I really am and when I see your face I know why.

I feel more apprehensive about this time because I’m secretly wanting your hands all over me and I can’t help watching your lips move during dinner. You greet me with familiarity, touching me softly, hugging me close and smelling whiffs of my perfume. All of this makes dinner impossible to get through. We’re enjoying each others company when we want just as badly to enjoy other things about each other. I give myself an anti slut-shaming pep talk and you, not wanting to be too presumptuous, but also prepared, had slipped a condom into your wallet.

You linger in my doorway, taking it all in, noticing my shallow breathing as I ask if you’re going to come in after me. You do and everything turns into that foggy haze of desire meeting anticipation. I let you sleepover and you try not to pass out directly afterwards, enjoying the feeling of my head against your chest.

I worry you won’t text me the next day and other than a brief, “I had fun last night” you don’t.

My disappointment is apparent when I walk into work on Monday, trying my hardest not to let your inattention mess with my day. You think of me while in your morning meeting. You mean to text me but forget and by the time you remember you scold yourself for not doing it earlier.

We have dinner and other activities a few more times. You realize this is going somewhere and immediately start to panic.

Your hesitation only makes me want you more and out of desperation I cling, then worry about my clinging and avoid you entirely. You miss my voice, my body, my company while you’re out drunk with friends at 2am. You text me but I ignore you out of respect for myself. “Fuck, I messed up”, you think, but then again, maybe I wasn’t the one, maybe all those butterflies were premature because there’s always another girl to swipe right on, at least, thats what your friends tell you, and what you tell yourself. My friends tell me the same. I pretend our brief tryst meant nothing when really it meant something, or maybe it meant nothing – I’ve been through this scenario so many times I’m not sure I know the difference anymore.

We see each other by accident. You forgot how beautiful I am, I forgot how charming you are.

We make conversation as if we haven’t been in bed together, as if our intimacy was so routine, so regular that we can just move past it like that. We promise to text each other if the other one ever wants to grab a drink but we never do. We go in separate directions and don’t even turn around as we feel each other slip away. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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