She asks you questions and you let her linger on the edge of your lips, waiting to catch the answer that will fall out. She calls, and you let it ring, watching it across your table as it buzz, buzz, buzzes.
You go, girl, you did what we never could. And then put it on the internet.
And I am not interested in torturing myself with questions of “What if he meets someone else?” I’m sure you will. And maybe you’ll manage to fool her for even longer than you did me.
My apartment had never seemed more cold. It had never felt less like the place I actually lived, or more like a vague insult to my current state of aloneness.
I wonder about all of the things she did not do because she was waiting for someone to answer to, waiting for something to make it all worth it. She told me about one party; there must have been hundreds of others.
I want to walk out and pretend not to hear the calls behind me of “Where are you going?” “When are you coming back?” I don’t know when I am coming back, and there is no one I want to explain it to.
They swept their hair out of their eyes in the same way, they put two sugars in their coffee the same way, they played with a fray on their jeans the same way. But there was an invisible inner part that you could sense had evaporated from them, maybe even overnight, that was not going to come back.
Mushy emotional words and tears or sarcastic jokes and laughs? Handshake or hug? An empty “We should hang out soon” or an actual number exchange and hashed out details?
Saying goodbye is most difficult when there is a part of you which believes it is only a “see you later.” You would never fully admit it, but you intend on seeing them again.
I used to blame a lot of my problems on New York, which was stupid and cowardly of me. It took me a long time to realize that the city isn’t some devil that’s out to get you. It’s more like the most unflattering full-length mirror you could possibly think of.