“When the businessman shoulder checks me in the airport, I do not apologize. Instead I write an elegy on the back of a receipt and tuck it in his hand as I pass through the first class cabin. Like a bee, he will die after stinging me. I am twenty four and I have never cried. Once, a boy told me he doesn’t believe in labels so I embroidered the word “chauvinist” on the back of his favorite coat. A boy said he “liked my hair the other way” so I shaved my head instead of my pussy- While the boy isn’t calling back, I learn carpentry, build a desk. Write a book at the desk. I taught myself to cum while counting the ceiling tiles. The boy says he prefers blondes and I steam cleam his clothes with bleach. The boy says I am not marriage material and I put gravel in his pepper grinder. The boy says period sex is disgusting and I slaughter a goat in his living room. The boy doesn’t ask if he can choke me so I pretend to die while he’s doing it. My mother says this is not the meaning of “unfazed.” When the boy says I curse too much to be pretty and I tattoo the word “cunt” on my lower lip, my mother calls this “being very phased.” But leftovers from the other universe are hours and hours of waiting for him to kiss me, and here, they are just hours. Here, they are a ride bike across Long Island in June. Here, they are a novel read in one sitting. Here, they are arguments about god or a full night’s sleep. Here, I hand a hour to the woman crying outside the bar. I leave one on my best friend’s front porch, send my mother two in the mail. I do not slice his tires. I do not burn the photos. I do not write the letter. I do not beg. I do not ask for forgiveness. I do not hold my breath while he finishes. The man tells me he does not love me and he does not love me. The man tells me who he is, and I listen. I have so much beautiful time.”
— Alternate Universe in which I am unfazed by the men who do not love me, Olivia Gatwood, New American Best Friend
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