I don’t feel as much as I thought I would in all the places my heart is.
I wake with a headache. The 50-dollar nut. We lay and laugh at each other. Your friend sends you a picture of her face. I feel vaguely jealous. I shower. You dump a handful of cold water on my head while you stand by the sink. Fuck, what the fuck, I wasn’t even gonna get my hair wet. What the fuck, I say. You scoff at me, blowing air from your nose and mouth, look at me like I’m the lamest, saddest thing, tell me to grow the fuck up.
I dress, come downstairs. You’re sitting in the green armchair rolling a joint, your roommate on the couch next to you, texting. I make you coffee to go. I let your dog out. Sit on the arm of the couch, check my phone charging out of the wall, time 10:03.
You’re late. You better hurry, I say. You call me a bastard. Shut the fuck up, you fucking bastard. God, you’re a bastard. You think I don’t know that? Seriously, shut, the, fuck, up. Fucking bastard.
Your roommate laughs. I feel very small and ashamed and as soon as you’re done, the tears come, but I don’t let them go, like I’m 10 years old and my dad is letting me know exactly how stupid I am.
Then something fades. Quickly, like clouds dissipating. Like everything between us is weather, a season passed.
I haven’t told you I’ve stopped loving you. You’re on your way to New York for some bachelor party and although I do not love you anymore, I do not hate you. I do not dislike you, at all. So I will wait until you get back, after you have a good time inside the dark and glittering bars.
I imagine you taking it well. I imagine you agreeing with me when I say, We cannot dwell on what is not. You’ll say something stupid like, Go kick some dick without me. It will be then that I’ll want to touch you, that I’ll feel like the stupidest thing in the world.