And before ______, I had boyfriends, yeah. But they didn’t treat me the way that ______ did in the beginning. At work, he followed me around like a lost puppy. Always physically close. He was the first person to tell me I was an artist. Which made me feel so seen and validated. We stayed at the bar late at night and sat on the floor while I recited my poetry to him and drank beers. He pretended to listen. He told about his family. I told him about mine. And he seemed so genuinely interested and concerned for my well being.
He would stare at me from across the room, flirt with me when we were in passing during our shifts. Playfighting, bantering. He has a way about him that is clever and witty, a recipe for girls like me to immediately fall in love. We would text every day, send each other sexts, and pictures. FaceTimed and emailed. He wrote me pages and pages of love letters confessing his love for me. He explained all the reasons why he loved me. He told me I was funny, and comforting, and reflective, and beautiful, and I deserved so much more than what I was going through.
And of course, as a neglected, poor girl who had been invalidated her entire life and just wanted to feel special for once, the love bombing felt like a drug. It sucked me in so quickly, I was willing to sacrifice everything to keep feeling the way he made me feel.
We stood at the left corner of bar, him hovering over me. Looking down on me. My eyes looking up as wide as the sun. Him putting my hair behind my ears. I remember the softness of his hands. The gentleness. I felt like we were in this container where nothing else mattered and everything else just melted away.
The rush of sneaking out to go have sex upstairs and pretending to get inventory. Him eating me out in the office. Sweat and build up. My co worker calling his name to come back to the restaurant and do his job while I was on the verge of an orgasm. My hands through his hair. Our dirty red shirts.
The stain on his bed from our first time having sex, knowing that I was on my period. The vulnerability, the opening. We couldn’t stop. We had sex on our breaks, more than twice a day, outside, in a parking garage. We’d go sneak to make out on the side of the restaurant. He changed my schedule around so we could do a closing shift together, which included free beer, loud music, and having sex in the bathroom.
The first time we ever made out, we had both been drinking already two pints at that point And maybe even some shots. We walked out through the doors to market to grab the kegs. Or fix them. I don’t remember. That time in my life was so hazy and cloudy from the high of the infatuation. To the right, the market wall. Our bodies couldn’t be away from one another. It felt magnetizing. And before you knew it, I’m somehow thrusted up against the wall, feverishly making out and heavy breathing. Our bodies pushed up against each other. I remember thinking, “wow, this is it. He is it.“ Our chemistry was undeniable. I had never made out with someone and thought, “this is perfect.“ He was a really good kisser. I felt such a flush of emotions and overwhelmed by his presence. And as we took a break to breath, his lips leaving mine for a moment, he uttered, “I don’t know if I should say this”…and I knew just what he meant. I pretended I didn’t: “what? Say it.”
circa 2017
“I love you.”
My heart dropped out of my chest.
I nodded and giggled. My face probably red as our shirts. “I love you too.” and I meant it. It was our version of it. It was the only way we knew how to love. Fiercely, abruptly, without much thought or consequence. Drunk in love and beer. With sweat and blood and dirty shirts. With secrecy and adrenaline and going way too fast.
————
We sat at the side of bar, facing the mirror that encompassed the entire wall. We rolled silverware, me in chair, him standing over me. We looked at each other through the mirror. And I think that was the last time I’d ever be seen by him.
I’ve been looking ever since.