words don't come that easy.

x

06.03.22
01:18

I am at a bagel shop, drinking iced coffee and reading a fiction novel. The storefront is run down, the menu, dusty. Men with caps wait in line as babies cry behind them. In a sense, this is one of the only places in Los Angeles that reminds me of South Florida. There, I grew up in run down bagel shops with flavored coffee and Saturday Specials. The severs would come around and refill our mugs, in a thick New York accent they'd ask if we needed anything else, while the old man next to us complained that he never got his lox. Here, in this small space, I romanticize home, even though not one ounce of my body wants to return there.

I've been thinking a lot about how we used to lay in my bed naked in the summer. I didn't want to sleep with you for a long time, and I think that probably frustrated you, but I you never gave me a hard time about it. You used to tell me that every time you went to my apartment, your housemates would ask you if we slept together yet, and you'd say no. I thought the whole thing was funny, but maybe I just didn't want to rush it. There was something sacred, just laying in bed with you without any clothes on, but not doing anything at all. You told me that you'd wait until I was ready.

I am beginning to realize that I blame myself for nearly every relationship that falls apart, even though the blame is only half mine. I sip my coffee as a man with large glasses gazes at me. I think he must think I am mysterious and/or independent, and finds that attractive or something.