He wrote down every conversation that they ever had. They were all piled into a notebook, arranged by date, scrawled in messy cursive. His favorites were marked with blue marker; just a little dot of ink, spreading its veins into the edges of the page.
May 5th, 2002: the Canyon Apartments, number 14, 5:04 a.m.
HIM: When will this ever end?
HIM: What’s happening between us, I mean.
HER: You seem surprisingly bewildered for someone who, just three hours ago, was utterly desperate to lure me into the bedroom.
HIM:
HER: You’re doing it to yourself.
HIM: And what about you? Do you feel nothing? Do you not realize what we’re doing to each other?
HIM: We fight constantly, and half the time, it’s about some insignificant bullshit. Then we patch the wound together with sex. It’s an endless circle, you know—and it’s killing us.
HIM: I can’t remember the last time we had a decent conversation. We’re damaging one another.
HER: Destruction.
HIM:
HIM:
HIM: Exactly.
HER: No, we’re not damaging one another—we’re destroying one another. It’s eating away at us, this relationship.
HIM: I know.
HER: So is this where we draw the line?
HER: Have you finally realized what a bitch I am, and how fucked up your life has become because of me?
HIM:
HIM:
HER: Somehow, you’ve decided that the sex isn’t worth the arguments anymore. You’re not satisfied, and you don’t want any commitments, so you’re choosing to move on. You don’t want to deal with consequences or repercussions.
HER: You’re a scared bastard, just like the rest of them—
HIM: You know that’s not true.
HER:
HER: Liar.
October 17th, 2002: A Background of Magazine Journalism, University of California - Berkeley, 11:48 p.m.
HIM: Your shirt is on backward.
HER:
HER: I don’t feel the need to explain myself.
HIM: Do I know him?
HER: Does it matter?”
HIM:
HIM:
HIM: I like to think that it does.
HIM: We don’t have to hate each other.
HER: I don’t think you know what hatred is, really.
HER: Actually, I don’t think you know how to recognize emotions at all. You don’t know hate from love, or anger from sadness.
HIM:
HER: I’m twisted, but at least I can tell when someone gives a shit.
HIM:
April 10th, 2003: Hummingbird Park, near the abstract sculpture, 8:39 p.m.
HER: I’m happy for you.
HIM:
HIM: Are you?
HER: Of course.
HER: After watching you flee from commitment for five years, it’s refreshing to see you actually care for someone.
HER: And not just for sex.
HIM: When will you stop misunderstanding me?
HER:
HER: When you stop acting like I am.
HER: There’s a difference between being defensive and being an outright jackass.
HER: I’m not sure you’ve found that difference.
HIM:
HIM: I did love you.
HER: Love and lust aren’t the same things.
HIM: I know.
November 13th, 2003: the Canyon Apartments, number 14, 9:26 p.m.
HIM: You’ve been smoking cigarette after cigarette for the past two hours.
HER: And?
HIM:
HIM: Maybe it’s time you stopped.
HER: Would you like to know something that I’ve been thinking about for a number of months?
HIM:
HER: Statistics predict that the average American woman will live for seventy-five years, give or take a few. But the average woman is supposed to be white, blonde, big-breasted, and have the emotional endurance of a superhuman.
HER: Look at me.
HIM:
HIM: I know where you’re going with this.
HER: Good, then you should be able to keep up.
HER: Let’s analyze those criteria, shall we? The average woman is white and blonde; I’ve got both of those going for me. She should be large-breasted. Well, depending on where a C-cup falls on the scale, I might have that checked, too. But then there’s the last item on the list—the average woman should have incredible and unbeatable emotional endurance.
HER: Do you know why?
HER: Because things like stress and sadness and heartbreak and depression, all eat away at your body. They age you. They defeat you, and while you’re experiencing them, they render you useless.
HIM: Destruction.
HER: So you’ve been listening.
HIM:
HIM:
HER: Yes, unless you have exceptional emotional endurance, your negative experiences will scar you. They’ll tear you apart—
HIM: And you think that dying from cigarette smoke is better than dying from your emotions.
HER: Bingo.
YOU ARE READING
broken bikes
Poetrypoetry is a vice. ➳ 2014 watty awards winner for poetry ➳ gorgeous cover by @mountainy
