And just like that, it’s spring.
Girls are wearing their summer dresses, anxious to feel the sun on their skin. People pour out of their homes once again; the winter keeps you in and the spring forces you out. Don’t miss out, it says. Before you know it, I’ll be gone.
A woman is crying on a bench, wiping at her eyes not caring who sees her. I should feel sorry for her, but I don’t. Not really. I watch every single person pass by me and forget what they look like in a blink. I’m sure they do the same with me. I feel forgettable, so I can’t say I’m offended.
Every so often a man will look right into my eyes as we pass – usually, they sweep me over from eyebrows to toes or ogle me haphazardly. But sometimes one will hold my gaze and it makes me shiver with a strangely cold feeling.
This is how it feels not to be in love with anyone, I guess.
When I was 15, I was in love with one of my classmates – or so I thought then, anyway, which I suppose is as much love as anything as far as teenage years are concerned. I’d wake up early and set my hair on rollers, shimmy into a pencil skirt and go to school every day, even with a bleating migraine, just to see him. I pined over him. I wrote angsty, heartachy poems abut him during English class. It lasted my entire sophomore year, and then one day it was just gone.
I don’t wake up with hearts in my eyes right now. I have a revolving door of guys who kiss me and feel me up when I’m bored, and sometimes they stay the night and other times they don’t. I don’t miss them when they’re gone, but I like when they’re here. I spent some time scrolling through Tinder, but whenever anyone expressed interest in meeting up, I just vanished. Something about it feels wrong to me. I can’t get excited about someone I met through the phone.
I can’t get excited about anyone, really. Most of the time I’m OK with it. It’ll happen when it happens.
But Sunday is the only day I ever feel lonely. My friends retreat into the glow of their relationships on Sundays, reminding me that everyone around me is in love but for some reason I just can’t make it work. And so I walk and walk and walk the lake until my brain slows down.
I have been in love maybe once. Maybe twice. It never lasts longer than a few months. I have been known to pretend to be in love just because I’m bored and it gives me something to do and focus on for awhile.
I feel sorta like a cat, batting at a toy it isn’t even sure it wants. At this point, it would be pretty hard to sweep me off my feet.