I’ve been in love before. I survived on Pot Noodles and scratchy Sex and the City videos, some of which wouldn’t play, when David left, and when Ben quit I dropped 2 stone. It was the simplest weight loss ever apart from, you know.
And I hope you don’t go but if you do I’ll be fine. I’ve measured the lengths for ‘getting over’, and ‘rebounds’ and ‘flings’ I’ll try and I’ll do if it means you’ll get grainy like a badly pirated copy of a cinema release or a shop copy of a book I could’ve bought new from Amazon and I’d really savour the wearing, absolute lack of wear.
Each time, I hope this love is it, and there have been about 5 true loves, 11 ‘ones’, and anyone that says they feel different to the last, they can really tell, they have certainty, knowledge, they’ve seen, I say, “Shit,” because no such thing, there’s no such thing, and I’d only ever say that in the bed of Brad Pitt, and then I’d be stop-gapping it.
I loved Jack and I loved books before we met and now we’ve met I love Jack more – the curve his spine makes, his crooked big toe, his translucent teeth, enamel-less, almost. And I love you too.
You were in place of him, so many evenings, mornings, days, and he didn’t text or have a chance to interject really, but he’s been quoting Nicholas Sparks at me, knows my weakness for Steve Martin, romantic comedies, Charles Bukowski. It feels like nothing connects when everything’s a version of something and everyone’s only a shade off another person and sometimes in name they’re a letter off: Chuck, Buck, Bick, Stick, Simon, Jimon, Jack, Mack.
I measure your outlines when you sleep with tape from my mum’s sewing box and you’re both exactly the same, not a millimetre out, in every dimension and I ask what you thought of The Notebook and you say, “The Lucky One’s better,” and I say I’ve not seen it and you say I should read so I read and I read and love Jack.
I agreed, I thought you’d be there, my plan pattered out after that, pittered, petered. We walked towards each other all slow-motion-y but you disappeared before the interval. You said you were sick to someone you came with which wasn’t me, which should’ve been me but mum and dad disagree about who I should see, what I can wear, who I can sleep with. They’re setting me up with boys I ate worms with, logic being, age is the only consideration. Age and legality.
We didn’t lie well, should’ve seen shows like Lie To Me, House, before they were cancelled. We should’ve said it just started, we got talking over coffee on a Saturday when we were reading the same book coincidentally not for an assignment or anything (an assignment you’d set and I’d do). That’s a lie which wouldn’t have swelled – what can you say, really, when 17 dates 22, when it dates 24? But the full disclosure we’re on, we’re about, allows for arguments and ultimatums and feet down.
I don’t see why we don’t hook up in three years or maybe just two when no-one can say anything about it. Or maybe you won’t wait that long?
You open fire exits with the force of a man when a fire’s starting.
Your suspicion’s thick, the way pasta’s fuller once you’ve cooked it, how not all cuts of material fit every body. I’m yet to find a wedding dress that fits.
Did you see Salmon Fishing in the Yemen? Ewan McGregor has caps now. He was in Star Wars. Do you remember Ewoks? Care Bears?
You are my logical fallacy. Once, I was sure that the mess of dialogue connecting us day to day, episode to episode, was leading to penultimate points in which we revealed ourselves like Spring/Summer collections in Autumn.