|
"get him the fuck out of my mind."
She had texted him yesterday and been shocked she did so. It had been so long. Maybe he really was like a drug, and the birthday text gave some new juice to the fix.
Nonetheless
nonetheless
and it was some stupid text. She wanted to damage control and quintillion-text "barf"
but
she resisted.
Not all heroes wear capes.
She was kind of bummed that she wouldn't meet his second son. he sounded like a total truth-telling punk.
and he is the only person she knows who bought boots as expensive as hers - bought because they had an ancient map of the stars stitched on them. She wanted to replace the cowboy boots jettisoned in the Oakland love war.
She wore hers to cut the grass. It was her seasonal gym. she fucking guessed.
she was wearing her replacements t-shirt. in rethinking this relationship - as one does when one has wagered one's worth on a busted flush - she wishes she had done the music and the clothes differently. When he said he liked her music ok but not the songs she chose, she could have played it differently.
"oh interesting. no one's ever said that before."
and just put that red flag in with the mother issues and ignored them all.
When he said, "you dress like a kid - a hipster. I bet all your clothes have a story."
"What a dick you can be huh. should I modify my outfits to please you? you're here so rarely, and I don't look at me anyway ...when you're here."
and she did the tiniest bit of gardening with her German scissors,
"and another thing. how fucking childish of you to hate the germans. I know I know. It's a tribute to your beloved grandparents. that's a hot button topic, but cruelty is something we've all done. and the second most spoken language in the US in 1940 was German."
"you're really slaying me here with these metaphors cuts and digs. I think I'm going to watch tv."
"you're really good at that. have a good show."
"thanks".
"we're done right?"
"did it have to be said."
"you're the talker not me."
"I get confused all the time."
She got up from her desk after a while. It wobbled. There was a new cat she was saying she was fostering, but she was saying it to no one. No one really asked.
She was great at fucking.
It had floored her to the door that old childish thing about love being involved necessary for proper fucking.
she shook her head and went outside and got the long-handled expensive precision scissors and cut a trash vine that had crawled a good way up the trash can she had just brought in. It made her sad for a tiny spell - something that grows through the muck, and
"meh,
you're a weed"
"you don't get to call me that."
"can you just let go"
She took a coffee flavored zyn and stuck it in her mouth.
"I'm not even trying to be honest."
|
