I used to think that he was cheating on me. I used to wish he was cheating on me, even, because that would at least wrap everything up in the kind of justification that I could get myself to understand.
You’ll ask me if everything is okay, I’ll say yes because I know that if I say no, there is a good chance you won’t come back again.
I have often been the kind of girl who burns the candles at both ends and can’t find the happy medium between the safe-but-boring choices who love me unconditionally and the horrible-yet-alluring choices who leave me feeling like a desperate child.
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.
It’s like being a child again, except instead of going to the carnival and loading up on cotton candy and sno cones, you stay in your apartment and order non-stop takeout Chinese.
The ceremony was lovely. It was one of those events you can describe as having nothing wrong with it, but it’s more of a compliment than it sounds like. Everything went well.
Ignore friends when they tell you, with varying degrees of tact, that this person is not good for you. Get visibly angry at the ones who tiptoe into implications that what they are doing could really be described as “emotional abuse.”
Our friends say that you’re into me, that you’re too shy, that you don’t know how to make the first move. They say I should just “go for it.”
I have to admit that I was pretty scared when I first caught you out of the corner of my eye. My whole body was overtaken with this incredible, terrible nervousness and I wondered how I could possibly open a conversation.
I am standing in the bathroom, brushing my hair, completely naked. You walk up behind me and tell me that I look good like that, that I should go naked more often, that the light is particularly flattering on my back side.