The first time the man calls me beautiful, my cheeks blush redder than the wine glass clenched between my shaking hands. I don’t know if he means it. I don’t care. I just know I want to hear him say it again.
The first time the man calls me funny, seeds of bliss blossom in my soul. His laughter is deep and earnest, a goofy sound that rattles his whole body. I love that sound. I want to burn it onto a CD and listen to it on repeat like a high school mixed tape.
The first time the man says he loves me, my defenses crumble like the Berlin Wall. He holds my chin between his fingers like it means something to him, whispering the words again and again until they were the only ones I know: I love you. I love you. I love you.
The first time the man calls me a bitch, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. He shakes his fist at me as he yells, his eyes ice and tongue dipped in poison. My heart races once more, but this time it hurts. His rage is a noose around my neck, and the rope cuts into my skin more with every insult. Bitch. Pathetic. Worthless. Cunt.
The first time the man breaks up with me, something inside of me dies. Not literally, of course. I still force myself out of bed every morning after the first week and even force myself to smile the second. I fill the empty cavity inside my chest with anything that makes the urge to text him stop. Empty glass bottles and takeout containers pile up around my apartment. Texts go unanswered, calls diverted to voicemail. I let the mailbox fill up before finally listening to the messages from my friends. They miss me. They’re worried. I don’t care.
Hasn’t anyone told them I died?
The first time the man doesn’t stop when I tell him no, my body betrays me. I turn into a lifeless statue beneath him, his touch anything but gentle as he finishes what he started. I’m not aroused and it does not feel good, but I don’t ask him to stop again. He’ll say I’m being difficult. He’ll pull his phone back out and ignore me for the rest of the night. I don’t want him to ignore me. I don’t want him to hate me. I just want him to hold me.
The last time I see the man, he holds me while I cry. He kisses my lips, but I taste no love in the gesture. We don’t make love. He fucks me and I let him, because I know I’ll never feel his touch again. He doesn’t linger on his goodbye this time, even if it’s permanent. He leaves as soon as he’s gotten what he came for.
I wait for the headlights of the man’s Jeep to disappear before blocking his phone number. I lock myself in the bathroom and cry curled up in the bathtub, wondering what prescription I’d have to ask my therapist for to feel nothing. He says he hopes I’ll be happier, and I tell him I do, too.
I don’t wait for his memory to fade to let another set of arms comfort me.
The last time the man said goodbye, I said good riddance.
