The other night, my boyfriend and I had sex and fell asleep listening to the Stevie Nicks station on Pandora and it was one of the most beautiful things that’s ever happened to me. Sometimes I have a lot of emotions. This is where I leave them.
Sometimes people call me Sue. You can call me whatever you want. I have found my soulmate after twenty years of thinking I knew what that meant. I’m not old, but I’ve always thought about my soulmate. I found him twice.
Sometimes I call him Dave. That’s not his name, but we have a mutual understanding about it. I poetically met him (the first time) at an open mic in a record store when I was nineteen in May of 2014, when I was intwined with a boy I thought I was going to marry. I loved that boy’s family and I loved that boy’s tattoos and because of that boy, I didn’t give my Dave a second thought. He was the manager of the store, and I thought he was beautiful. He thought I was beautiful too, and he told his friends. I had short, curly, box-blonde hair and a red crop top that he didn’t forget. He amazed me when he reminisced about my outfit years later.
The second time I found him I didn’t remember him at all, and he didn’t recognize me. I had just been broken up with by the boy with the tattoos, for reasons almost entirely my fault, and I was in a bad place trying to rekindle our poisonous relationship. I leaned on my friends a lot at this time, two of whom frequented a shitty dive bar nearer to where they lived.
I drove home from this shitty bar in my mom’s car after drinking and whilst crying more often than not. I met Dave again in November of 2016. I referred to him as “James Franco” because he had laugh lines just like him. Later on, I changed my mind and started calling him “Dave Franco” because I always though Dave was much cuter. My Dave doesn’t know that to this day. It’s not a secret, I just never got around to telling him.
The first thing he remembers telling me, the story that he tells everyone, is the about the time I realized I knew one of his friends from the tattooed boy’s hometown. I was talking to his friend about the tattooed boy and how much I loved and missed him and Dave was drunk, slumped on a lawn chair on the deck of this shitty dive bar, telling me how the tattooed boy had “a stupid name” and sounded “like an idiot”. Dave’s brother has the same name, but that’s neither here nor there. I completely ignored him, and that was the only night I drove home from the shitty dive bar after drinking and whilst crying.
I had too many home-beers and my cat Wilson is trying to snuggle.
