So my girlfriend dumped me. And I want to be strong. I really do. Now that she’s no longer mine, I can’t stop thinking about her. I think of her when my phone sits silent. I think of her when I’m alone on the couch. I think of her while I’m at work with no one to email.
Damn, that fucking phone is just nagging me to pick up and call. The couch is pleading with me for a second warm body. And my fingers are fighting every second of every working moment to avoid typing in her email address. But I gotta be strong. It’s up to her to contact me first. She dumped me and that’s the way it works. I can’t let her know that I need her more than she needs me. That I miss her already.
She came to visit today, but not for the reason you think. But fuck all if her company instilled nothing but pure, sexual frustration in me. Her presence left me with a bitter taste of undiluted sexual madness.
You see, I didn’t foresee the breakup coming, thus, I wasn’t finished with her. If I had knew that the end was near, I surely would have slept over more. Or took more pictures of her pretty brown eyes. Or played with her succulent breasts more often. Or just plain fucked her brains every chance I had.
But now she’s gone. And I’m supposed to act like my feelings are as well.
She sauntered around my living room, collecting her old shit, like we were ex-roommates, at best. Surely she can’t be completely over me? But she sure acts like it. And so I must, too. But look at her. She’s so fucking beautiful.
I’m standing by the kitchen, saying nothing, watching as she picks out her CD’s from our mixed collection and I’m trying to remember the taste of her lips. The sound of her sleeping. The smell of her hair. The touch of her hand. The sight of her smile. But it’s all gone. It’s all a distant memory. She’s already starting to fade.
God, I can only vaguely remember the feel of her bare skin against my naked flesh.
Now she’s standing in front of the bedroom dresser, sorting her under garments from mine. How did this happen? When did she stop loving me? If only I saw it coming, I would’ve appreciated her more. But now I’m left with the full understanding that I didn’t use the ‘girlfriend’ benefits to my advantage. I just assumed that there would be time later to invest in her commodities.
She brushes past me, a full box of her belongings balanced in a flimsy box. “Excuse me,” she says. Like I’m a complete stranger. Like I’m just some guy she accidentally bumped into on the subway. How does she do it? How does she act so detached? We weren’t the best couple in the world, I understand that. Yeah, we fought a lot about stupid things and yeah, we took each other for granted and yeah, I despised her most of the time…
…but I was content. Most of my relationships eventually stray in this direction, so I wasn’t seeking change. I presumed that there was nothing better out there, just different - black hair, brown eyes; blonde hair, blue eyes; red hair, green eyes; whatever the outer shell presented, it all winds up as hair-tugging stress in the end. Daily squabbles and weekly blow-ups are inevitable. Fighting and acting distant toward one another are turns that every relationship must take, right?
Now she’s in the bathroom and she’s taking her fucking toothbrush with her. She’s taking her expensive shampoo. And she’s taking her body. I’ll never again see that wonderful body.
Damn, if only she wasn’t so stubborn. So hard-headed. She never took the time to learn the truth - relationships are supposed to be full of fighting, pouting and sleeping with your back towards each other.
Her naivety is what ruined us. Her rookie status to boyfriends clouded her perceptions on love. The green pervading her experience tree ended our affair… all because she believed that a couple shouldn’t argue every waking moment. That damn woman had the gall to think that a boyfriend should listen to her, respect her and stick up for her in times of trouble…
…which I didn’t. So she broke up with me.
Let’s start over, I want to say. I’ll change. Can’t we hug and make it all better? How about one last kiss?
But I don’t say anything. I hold my tongue. I can’t fold first. If she wants to get back together, she has to be the one to say so.
Now she’s rifling through the linen closet. She’s so sexy. Her back is turned to me and she’s holding up a beach towel, eyeballing it. She never wore those low-riding jeans with me? Listening to her slight Texan drawl as she asks if the green hand towel is mine or hers gently soothes my soul (during our relationship, it used to just gave me a headache). Watching her stroll from the linen closet to the garage brings movement back into my loins (I used to criticize her for walking too slowly). As she leans into the car to remove a hair scrunchy from my gearshift, I catch a glimpse of her bare back and it drives me insane with lust (while together, I wanted to shower solo so I could get the warm water to myself).
Pretty soon there will be nothing left of her. My house will be absent of all her memories. Except for those in my head. The ones that beg me to call. The one’s that I’ll fight with all my might to resist.