Infected

You’d think I mean diseases, that I’d caught some STDs from you, the way you look at the legs of employees, the hemlines of blouses, the stitches holding buttons together. But that’s not it. I kind of wish that was it, then you’d be easy to forget, reject, like stained clothes from eBay or shows with Zooey Deschanel in. Not awful just clumsy. Not even clumsy because that can be cute, just done before, badly scripted, slowly sinking, the slip so miniscule nobody sees it, and I’m not watching so I don’t see it either.

I thought love was a slow but definite fade, that relapses were for proper addictions to addictive substances: coffee, Diet Coke, caffeine, Matt Damon. But it turns out, it’s a freaking obsession, and it’s the waning that kills me, the slope that’s an absolute tease. When you think you’re in the end zone you’re due another turn, a sickness bout. The bends.

We don’t have any real friends. But you do have a girlfriend. And my timing is horribly teenage. I wait until you’re happily married, settled, pregnant, tied, ringed, betrothed, vowed, pinkie promised to somebody and that’s when I act. And if we were really fated, if we were fatalists, if there was a god calling shots on each situation like a director of films, TV, surgery, theatre, would each action be so ill-timed, badly defined, exactly wrong? I guess that’d be pretty funny to watch, actually. If you were like a sadist or something.

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