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The Stories...
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Love Stinks. Sometimes we get dumped.
: submit your own
A David Lynchy Kind of Love
by Alice
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This was not my first nor would it be my last relationship defined primarily by mutual self-loathing.
What made this one special, though, was the sultry free-for-all quality of the disgust. Also, the boy had very soft straight hair just long enough to fall forward and brush against my face when he kissed me. His kisses were gentle and careful and impossible to predict whether they’d come before or after the snide cutting comment, bitter laugh or eye rolling disdain.
Hot stuff.
It might have ended that one afternoon at the pond when he told me to close my eyes and open my mouth, he had something for me. And I asked what it was. And he wouldn’t tell me. His fingers were pinched over something small. “Close your eyes”, he told me.
He didn’t say, “Trust me”. I’m sure of that.
“No”, I told him. “What is it?”
He sighed and tossed whatever it was into the pond.
“What was it?” I asked him.
“You’ll never know”, he said. And I didn’t ask again, because I knew I would not.
That was not the actual end, but we were getting closer. The end came one afternoon when I realized I’d left my wallet in his apartment. I knew he would be working late. I knew I could get into his apartment by climbing up the fire escape and in through his kitchen window.
I could do that and perhaps he’d never know, except I felt sure somehow he would. Climbing into his apartment when he was not there would be it. The end. I knew that.
I think I thought it was time to end it and this would be an interesting way to do it. But, more than that there was a band I wanted to see that evening and I’d need my I.D. to get in.
So, I did it. Climbed the fire escape and in through the window. I didn’t look at let alone touch any of his creepy Christian icons, or his David Lynch memorabilia or any of the other morbidly disturbing kitschy shit he loved so much. I barely breathed the air in his apartment, but I did leave a note. “Sorry to do this, but I had to get my wallet”.
At three o’clock in the morning my roommate woke me up, “Bob’s here, I told him you were sleeping”. He appeared at the doorway and my roommate fled. I bolted upright in bed. He took a step closer and I scrambled to my feet and stood at the head of my twin-sized bed. He stepped up onto my bed and faced me, shaking with rage. We bounced a little, not on purpose, more for balance, like kids will on a trampoline. He shook his finger at me and said “You!” Just once before he bounced off and stomped out.
A couple of months later I saw him on the street. He told me he’d met someone. And she didn’t speak English and he didn’t speak her language and because of that it made communication between them very precious with no room for bullshit.
I remember trying to keep from grinning for about half a second. I really loved that idiot boy. And then I laughed. He shook his head in "why do I bother" type disgust, rolled his eyes like he would and kissed me- a brief, soft, hair-brushed peck on the cheek. At least that’s how I remember it.
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