We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. We didn’t even really date. To be cheeky, after our disaster, I used to call him my “ex-nothing.”
First I saw him around, and then we drank and slept together, and then we talked and went out to dinner, then we slept together, and then one night he slept in my bed but wouldn’t touch me, then I wrote him a long letter, then we didn’t talk, then we talked and slept together, then we didn’t talk, then we talked and kissed, then we didn’t talk. The time, adult-years of it, melts into one long string of silences and noise. I was a mess and utterly invested in him from the get-go. I would have called it love at first sight, if it had worked out at all.
I’m trying out Medium. I just posted a short essay there:
The stories start when I’m young, thinner than I think, but with jiggly thighs and a round belly, incontrovertible as my red hair and freckles. In flashes: the time that my mom told me to get “something sensible” from the pool snack bar, then fixed me with a look when she saw me tucking into an ice cream cone. When I think about that Drumstick, I feel the wet elastic of my swimsuit,like coils around my hips and thighs.The time that my cousin slept over, and we stayed up late watching movies and eating oranges. There’s nothing wrong with oranges, but we each put away more than half a dozen. I remember my mother’s face, again, nonplussed. My appetite was somehow inexplicable. When she’d leave the house to go for a run, I’d grab a handful of Club crackers and wrap them in a napkin, with a ready hiding place in case she came back early.