I kissed someone else. And any actual feeling which wasn’t a ploy was a willing casualty. And, the family you’re from, you better than anyone understand what compromise is: a daily occurrence, not a prison sentence because even they eventually end, mostly.
Months later, once you’ve fucked my friends and I, yours, when you’d think it too late to try you ask, “What if?” and the boyfriend box with your name on it which I loft-shoved, barely saved from setting light, changes status. Trinkets waning in and out of use.
When I ask, assume it implies I’m not a let go, forget kind of a person, and I’ll want you when you don’t want me, won’t know how to shut off those feelings simply like closing kitchen cupboards to hide disorganised ingredients. Public opinion won’t change my mind about Tom Cruise, not when I’ve seen that method, logged that screen time. And you’ll plump up exactly when you should oven-sink.
And you should be a screen door settler, who I bar better than Columbus who didn’t discover anything evidently and thought he’d discovered something else entirely, and it’s the unexpected finds that foundation-fuck and undermine plans which you shouldn’t make unless you’re ready for a lesson in fate which doesn’t exist but you’d think it does going by every decision you did make and the unbuttered side of it as it gravel-scraped.
In another life, an actual one that a timeline is living out right now, adjacent to yours and simultaneously, this this this is. But not here.
I realised forever wasn’t real on Charlie’s bed, watching TV, at a sleepover. And I hoped it’d be the last revelation of things my parents told me that turned out not to be true. But god happened next, then Tom Cruise (not his real name).
It was an “oh right” sort of stunned second in between talking about Aaron, Jonathan, Joe. Painting wobbly nails. Comparing pyjama shades.
It passed as we watched Dirty Dancing, which taught us to trust untrustworthy men because they’re all good eventually and everything ends anyway, in splats or splits, fades slowly like a nineties song, or doesn’t wait. Velociraptors don’t wait.
And I wondered then how it’d impact me later and now I’m telling you that I still don’t believe it. I don’t know what’s left to believe. But this doesn’t feel like it’s about to. Angelina Jolie.
I am not your first choice, second or third. If the world ends you’d rather die. But I urge you to make a list anyway, of every pro and con. Decide formally before you declare it in front of Alex, Charlie and Tom.
I have hobbies. I’ve seen a lot of movies. I know the names of every Beatles’ song and every Queen one. I’m not averse to bad TV if you like that. We could start with the nineties and work forwards – Ally McBeal and Buffy through to Grey’s Anatomy.
We have more in common than you think. I like my middle name in your mouth and my forename also. I have more money than guys your age. I have a working knowledge of the Bible. I won’t make jokes about virginity, monks, nuns, the sorts of topics you get ribbed for in the canteen. I’ve listened longer than you know.
You are my favourite month now. I met a girl called November but she was married. Otherwise I guess you could call me a fetishist.