When I
meet him we are colleagues at a chain coffee shop. We both like to
follow the rules but I am better at it than he is and this drives him
insane. I mismark cups on purpose to see how far I can push him. He
proposes to me at the end of our first shift together after I write
raz g.tea instead of R GT.
I decide that I will keep him as mine only under the condition that
he continues to make me feel the way he does on this day.
I
realize I am not pretending when I find myself getting jealous of the
girl he knows through Twitter. When he talks about her I know it
isn't going to work. She is young, and deceptive, and weak. She is
only comforted by the idea of him, his body terrifies her. It elates
me. I
express my feelings for him on a Starbucks cup. I think that he
accepts.
He
drives his mother’s car to Washington DC to take her on a first
date. The night he comes back he meets me at our work and kisses me
in the parking lot. Not just the spot near my car but in the middle
of the thoroughfare. He is wearing an FBC kit only at the time I
don’t know it is called a kit and he scolds me because I call it a
jersey. I purposefully wear that black dress. We eat
dinner at the restaurant across the parking lot and I drink beers
because I am nervous about being on a date with someone who doesn’t
drink.
My
best friend calls me because she is injured and I make him go with me
to Wegman’s to purchase an ACE bandage and some aspirin. We
deliver the supplies and we play darts in her apartment because I am
too drunk to drive and he beats me. We go to the beach and come
close to being arrested for trespassing as we are making love on a
rock. The police officer that is at the scene is one of the regular
customers at our coffee shop.
The distance from
me to him is 458 miles. Or three years. Whichever comes first.
There will be a time when we think it will be too hard to keep going.
It is hard because I am in a city looking at the same thing he is
looking at in a different city. We will learn to live this way, but
not yet.
I am
concerned that our entire relationship can be chalked up to these
markings on Starbucks cups, me taking his last name, a shot, and
mutual hate for things. When he writes my name on his arm I am
concerned that I will feel compelled to write his name on my arm as
well. Every man after him will have to live with the fact that they
are not the first man to do this.
I
write love letters to him on the bar because we cannot exist outside
of this place.
