Short phone call
Try not to think of me too much.
You said that jokingly, but it’s as if you know I can’t stop thinking about you.
Try not to think of me too much.
You said that jokingly, but it’s as if you know I can’t stop thinking about you.
I’m drunk and I can’t stop thinking about you; about the way I had my arm around the back of the couch, about the way you leaned into to me, about the way you told me to text you later. I can’t stop thinking about the brightness of your shirt, about the way I made you laugh, about the sound of your voice on the phone. I can’t stop thinking about what I’m going to say to you, and how I hope to God the moment is right and that maybe,just maybeyou’ll put your hands on me.
Shit. PLease, please, please let me kiss you. It’s the only thing I’ll ever ask of you…to forget for one second about all the realities we live and let me kiss you.
And did you notice how I paid extra attention to that other girl? Did you see how much I wanted her too? I hope it made you jealous. I hope it made you roll your eyes at yourself for being jealous. I hope it made your stomach hurt.
Why am I jealous that you’re in love? I’m in love too. I have someone else too - someone who I couldn’t live without. Someone who I’m going to marry one day. Someone who loves me so much he can’t stop saying it.
And you have that too, don’t you? I know you do.
I’m jealous of her. I’m jealous when you talk about her, jealous when you post pictures of her, jealous when other people talk about her in reference to you.
At least, I think it’s jealousy. It’s that unsettling tingle in my stomach that makes me clench my jaw. That feeling that makes me hold my breath as if I am trying to suffocate it. I clear my throat, change the subject, and wonder why you still look at me when you’re so happy with her…
And try to figure out why I look right back.
I’m trying to be more vulnerable. Trying to own my emotions, trying not to be too self-preserving. I’m trying to be more honest.
So, I wish I could send you a warning of what’s to come. I wish I could give you a head’s up to expect the things I’m planning on saying to you when I’ve had a little too much to drink and you’re sitting a little too close.
I’m going to tell you that I want you. That I know I can’t have you, but that I want you nonetheless. I’m going to tell you that I want you to know someone else thinks you’re sexy, thinks you’re worthy of being looked at. I want you to know that someone else wants to put their hands on you, their mouth on you, their eyes all over you. And that person is me.
I’ll try to tell you subtly - the way I look at you, the way I try to make you smile, or laugh. I think you already know. But you’re probably not going to like it.
Because it will make you be honest with your feelings too. And that’s fucking terrifying. Trust me, I know.
…when you call my by my last name.
…when you use big words.
…when you wear your hair down.
…when you tell me that you have to talk to me because your girlfriend won’t listen.
…when you look right at me.
…when I make you laugh.
…when you make me laugh.
…when you get that look on your face that is a mix of bashfulness and flirtation.
I need to get you out of my head. I need to stop my thoughts from going directly to your face, your hair, your lips every time I’m in the mood. I just read this and couldn’t help but realize that this is how I feel about you.
“It’s lust, not love right?”
It’s starting to boil over, and you tell me how much you like talking to me, and you say things and do things that make me want to push you against the wall, and pull your shirt over your head and discover that I know how to do things I didn’t even realize I could do.
I’m sitting here, that familiar ache at my core, as I cross and uncross my legs. I down a glass of water hastily - this is sucking me dry. I fantasize about the sounds you would make, and how they would match my sounds, and about that very distinct colour forming in your cheeks, and the sheer intensity of your eyes as they widen, staring at me for one very overwhelming moment before snapping shut as your hand tightens around any part of my body you can find and you let go and everything, right then, right there, is so fucking perfect that I don’t even know what to do about it. And then…I take a breath.
I’m not in love with you. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with you. You aren’tthe one. But, goddamn it, I want to taste your skin. I want to smell your scent on me, I want to tangle my fingers in your hair and feel the tight grip of your slender hands around my forearm. I want you so bad that I don’t even know why any more. It’s become the most base, raw thing I’ve felt in years and I don’t know how to make it go away.
I’m in a weird mood today. One minute I am filled with this overwhelming feeling, which is a mixture of anxiety and total and complete happiness…the kind of feeling that makes you smile but you don’t know if it’s because you’re uncomfortable or if it’s because you’re actually happy.
And then it disappears and I think about how I probably shouldn’t have said that thing that I said, even though I know I’m probably over-thinking it. I was joking. Then the anxiety kicks in again and I wonder if you see right through me and that you’re ignoring it because it makes you feel uncomfortable.
But I like you. And I want you. And I’m starting to get afraid that this is going to turn into one of thosethings.
(I try not to think about you when I’m trying to get off, but you pop into my head and it’s almost too much. I distract myself as I try to push you out of my libidinous thoughts and it ruins everything.)
I justfeelsomething today. It keeps me from focusing on anything else. It’s dangerous. Because I can’t have you. In fact, I don’t even know that I want to have you. I haven’t quite figured out whether or not it’s you I like or the idea of you. Most days, I’m convinced it’s the latter.
That little stretch in my door way…when your skin peaked ever so slightly out from underneath your t-shirt, the one that really brings out your eyes…
And did you see how my eyes lingered as you turned to walk away? I made it obvious because I want you to know that I want you.
Every day I feel differently about marriage. Today I feel like marriage is a sham. Why would I get married? Why would I spend money just to show off how many promises I’ve made to someone? I’ll never wear the dress again anyway.
And while we on the topic of antiquated traditions, the whole concept of marriage - from the dress, to the wedding party, to the exchange of rings - is absurd in the 21st century. I’ve written better love poems to my boyfriend than any vows could ever express. I don’t want to stand up there and have somebody tell me that our love is eternal. It would only be to make other people happy…my mom, my dad, my best friend.
The whole thing makes me roll my eyes.
But then I have days where I think about that moment when he sees me a the top of the aisle and I look at him in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, and the thought of the smile on his face makes my heart race. My hands would shake slightly and I would take a deep breath and walk toward him, as if he and I were the only two people in the room.
And then I think about my father walking me down the aisle and how I reject the need for him to be there because we were never that close anyway and I don’t need his permission. And I think about how sick I am of doing things just to make other people happy. He has another daughter - he can walk her down the aisle. She’s more of the traditional type anyway.
Then I think of our first dance, and wonder what kinds of things he will whisper in my ear as we move slowly around the dance floor to a song that has always meant something. He’ll make me laugh, and I’ll notice I got some of my make up on his shoulder but he won’t care because I’ve left parts of me permanently on his skin and a little make up will come out of his rented jacket. And I wonder if it will feel different, having sex with him on our wedding night. I’ll worry that it won’t feel different, and wonder what it was that I was expecting. He’ll smile down at me, and afterward he’ll grab my hand and our shiny new rings will clank together and he’ll kiss me softly and tell me he’s happy. And I will be too.
The ring. Every girl wants a ring. It’s too symbolic to resist. And part of me hates that I want one, that I expect one. When all the promises we make for each other are just as tangible as square-cut 3.5 carat diamond ring set in white gold.
But part of me wants to call him my husband, especially as I wave to our children in the playground as he catches them at the bottom of the slide and one of the other mothers leans over and tells me how beautiful they are. And I’ll smile, and touch my ring with my thumb.
How embarrassing.
