She refused to write poetry with me.
It was just about the sex, and she was fucked up, so we would ruin the couch and ruin the kitchen table and ruin my bed and then wake up wordlessly.
I’d get dressed, throw a nasty “bye” at her, and rush off to work.
Nothing emotional. Too emotional.
I demanded, “God dammit, I don’t understand why you’re like this. Let’s just be happy!”
She didn’t like happy. She liked dark and deep. She liked drugs and whiskey.
“Love fucks things up,” she claimed, “my friends are all in love and they’re upset all the time.”
Shit. All I knew how to do was love.
It was my fault, largely. I refused to be hers.
She wanted to be in a relationship, I knew. She never said it. Not once. But I knew.
We kept my roommate up every night.
Every morning, I woke up by her side.
Weekends, admittedly, she slipped up, allowing for cute outings.
We’d go to Washington Square Park. Ice cream on the grass, telepathically willing the puppies to come over to receive our love.
We would leave for Rockaways Beach at midnight. Cold as fuck.
It was the only part of the city that you could see the stars because it was far enough away from the blazing light of midtown.
We stayed until the sun rose, getting trashed, making bonfires on the sand.
The third trip to the beach she got too drunk. I didn’t realize just how much she drank, and when the molly wore off at around 3:30, she was a mess.
We got back to the station.
She vomited on the platform. I grinned lovingly, holding her hair back.
The train came, and I carried her into the car.
She sputtered to life, “Your hat!”
I rushed out quickly, diving for the vomit covered hat. Fucking hat.
I turned and the doors closed.
Her phone was dead. I watched as she rolled away, head lolling to the side, eyes closed.
I started crying hysterically. I texted her anyway, “I love you.”
I later deleted the message off her phone and she never saw it.
The next train was in 40 minutes. I was a blubbering mess by the time it arrived.
For three hours, I crisscrossed the subway lines, weakly asking train conductors if they’d seen a sleepy drunk brown girl in a fluffy coat. Nobody had. I cried at the Broadway Junction station. I cried on the Rockaway Av. station. Two out of 469 stations. One out of eight million New Yorkers looking for someone. She could be anywhere.
Four hours later, I showed up at her apartment. I rang the doorbell like a madman, and her landlord grumpily opened the door.
I busted into her room and somehow, she was there.
I cuddled her, kissing the dried vomit off her lips.
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
She came to life for a moment.
“Are you sure?”
She smiled and fell back asleep.