I Still Have A Bunch Of Your Stuff

February 15, 2011 § 1 Comment


I’m just like anyone he’s ever met in some way or another, and even when I tell him something I think about him he can only say that he’s heard that before. When I was five, some neighbor kids and I were all playing this spy capture game and they’d lay on top of me and kiss me and hold my breath. It didn’t traumatize me. I liked it.

I told him about it when we were falling asleep, and it was like any other story he’d ever heard. I’m a television show he’s seen a million times, and not because he enjoyed it. It was just always on, in the background, providing white noise and laugh tracks while he did something better with his time.

You once sat in your car with me after we’d listened to your favorite song by Cream and you told me the worst things you thought there were to know about you. As you told me what happened with your brother in that hotel right before he and your dad went to prison, I could tell that your panic was more about what you were revealing than what had happened. I hadn’t told you anything real about myself yet, and that one car-time-reveal was as much as I’d really learn about you.

After that we were drunk any time we had something to say, and you began to sleep more and talk less over the months. I kept talking, though, and before you disappeared without telling me why, you knew enough about me to know that if you ever wanted to do my head in faster than all of the booze we swilled on my porch, just leaving like that was the way to do it.

It’s almost been a year since I met you. After sex this morning I was looking for something to wipe up the mess, and I came across your G.I. Joe t-shirt. I lay back down next to him and I told him to his face that if he ever wanted to disappear, he needed to tell me about it first, or I’d likely find him and set him on fire.

“You crazy writer girls are all the same,” he said, and kissed me. I started to cry, and I lied to him about why. I said it was about that old man who got shot yesterday. I forgot to clean up the mess, anyway. It’s still there in my bed. He’s not.

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