I like you because you find ways to see a reality that you want to see… And babe, I’m sorry, but I’m not it. I can’t give you everything that you want or need. You know that, right? The thing about realities is that every single one of us has one. We’re different people.
You blink thrice and stare at me like you’re trying to flick a stubborn fly off of your picnic table. You look incredulous, as if to say, “why (and how) are you still here?” You look disgusting to me right now. I realize that you are a black hole. I can feel your pull, I can feel your doom, but I cannot leave.
On the walk home, you go on and on about Tarot card readers, while I’m trying my best to keep my chin up and to walk a straight line. Since I have only had one beer in the span of four hours, I come to the conclusion that the cause of my inability to walk properly cannot be alcohol. It must be something more powerful; it must be because I am weaker than I thought.
Later that night, you continue rambling.
This is not first love bliss. This… is wonderful satisfaction. And it sucks that it’s different than the thing that you feel for me - I wish it was the same. I want it to work. The thing you’re giving me, babe, is so pure and true. If I was 24 like you, maybe… but I’ve had my heart beaten a lot by a baseball bat.
And I always knew you would hurt me.
I’m having brunch with a grade school principal right now at a bougie restaurant in the Mission….
“I’m really glad you come over tonight.”
I couldn’t say the same, so I just nodded.
This might be the beginning of the end. I don’t feel that urge that I used to crave anymore.
Speaking of cravings, I want steak!