There will come a time when the only man left is your best friend’s boyfriend and it’s not that you have an attachment, really, except in transference, in that kissing him is kissing her, knowing her leg contours in more detail than sleepovers allow for.
He says, “I’ll leave her for you,” and you say, “No,” and he repeats his phrase until he’s in your mouth, a part of your day, the only text you pay attention to. Jack was not solid: you were two hands lingering on ketchup bottles, salt shakers, meeting illicitly for coffee (is there any other kind of coffee you wonder?) but now you’re back in the same city, the lie is thicker like cream when you take a fork to it, or water with gravy granules in.
And the moment it happened is a well-cut trailer in your head for a film you joked you’d never see. He comes to you in dreams at 8.56, minutes before you’re meant to wake, saying, “I screwed her and I kissed you and I understand your body better than you do and have you considered fate, that Plato was right, we’re halves, our navels are scars the other left? What if she’s Megan Fox and you’re Rosie Huntington-Whiteley? ”
Your only crime is watching him leave after he’s left, and you get Lot’s wife looking back, when memory’s all that anchors you and every shitty thing that you did, or someone did, doesn’t mean you want to see it all burn. Doesn’t mean you won’t try save it.