Hardly revolutionary. Nothing I can say is. And nothing changes, either. Because my heart’s still in my mouth, and maybe that’s normalcy, you know?
If there was one promise I made, I’ve broken it, because it was ONE: Don’t be vulnerable again. But I’m letterbox watching because hearing from you’s the absolute pop of a day.
There were reasons layered like winter looks in overpriced magazines that don’t tell me things the internet couldn’t. And I’d tell myself this when you’d resurface like badly buried soil bulbs.
Not the priority. And that’s my biggest problem, isn’t it? Wasn’t it? Won’t that always be it?
We say there’s no way of stopping. But I wonder what happens the day you decide to. Another 8 years of apple drownings on Halloween, promises I can’t keep, comparisons like you’re Brad Pitt. And what if?
Jack says, “Some films justify cheating and even endorse it, as if the writer’s after a way of rose-tinting a past they can’t really change.”
I ask for examples and Jack gives a comprehensive list that’s almost faultless, although his romantic comedy knowledge isn’t as full as I’d like in someone I’m considering seriously.
“What about Something Borrowed?” I ask him.
“That I didn’t get,” he replies. “The first half I couldn’t tell who we were vying for. And when she had the chance to fuck Jim Halpert and maybe even marry him and didn’t take it, the character seemed unknowable, as if the writer went back and re-wrote parts of her own life to feel better about them.”
“Isn’t that everyone’s dream?” I ask Jack. “To change things we can’t?”
“Not mine,” he replies, then he reaches for his phone, and I hear the message send, knowing I’m a bad overlap, like two people’s coats on a bus seat awkwardly layering or two flat fridge magnets, one peeling from the heater heat, the other more firmly stuck, only just. Not every action’s comprehensible so it makes sense that in films sometimes people make fucking stupid decisions.