“I only smoke cigarettes when I’m really drunk,” I declare to you at 10:30 p.m. on a Sunday night as I grab yours from your hand. You smirk. I take one tiny drag and start choking.
(Not the most graceful smoker, I guess. This translates to who I am as a person as well.)
Lately, I’ve been finding myself hanging out in your apartment trying not to feel anything at all. Nothing happens between us, not anymore. We have a connection, but it’s not love. (Your words, not mine.) Although it’s fading for me. It’s more of a dull ache now. Tolerable. Waning.
I’ve never been one to chase what’s good for me. I find it boring. There’s a lack of a challenge. I haven’t earned it.
The ephemeral tempts me. There’s something so seductive about something I can’t have. I just need a taste. I need to know what I’m missing. I’m intoxicated by anything that shows a lack of promise. It’s familiar. It’s safe. It hurts.
(What I really think it is, though, is that I just don’t know how to be loved back.)
“I can drink tequila now,” I tell a group of old friends from another life. You’re there, too. Tequila used to not mix well with me. It never ended well. So of course, I was determined to win it over.
(The trick is to not think about it too much when you’re taking the shot. Do it quickly. It’ll be over before you know it.)
You tell me you’ve been drinking more tequila too. Our friend found some really smooth shit that goes down like water. You can’t remember what it’s called. I’ll just have to come try it sometime.
There’s nothing to lose if nothing was ever going to happen. This is what I tell myself when it’s 3:00 a.m. and your lips taste like smoke. My own move against yours quickly. I’m not thinking about tomorrow morning. I’m not picturing a future. I’m not pretending this is anything that it’s not. I’m only kissing you like I’m begging you to stay right here, right now.
(It’s still over before I know it.)