“Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away” – F. Scott Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby)

I pick up the half filled mug and raise it to my ever so slightly chapped lips. He doesn’t believe in drinking coffee. I curl my feet underneath my body, his couch feels like corduroy. Its hot against my skin, it’s a Wednesday in Southern California. I watch him put on his dress shirt, one button at a time, and pull on his pants. He looks great in a suit, tall, lean, full of determination, full of long-awaited promise.

It’s strange, I’ve spent so much time looking for this, it’s everything I wanted; everything I thought I needed. But we love each other only because we are both so lonely, broken from people who came long before one another. He puts on his shoes, they’re trendy, i love them. He relaxes into the giant couch beside me, drinking a protein shake… scolding my cup of coffee. I grab his fingers and intertwine them with mine, forcefully. I stare at our hands and think about how forced so much of this has been. Several things come to mind, “I want you, but not now, not permanently”, “I want you, now that you’re gone” “I want you because they want you”. I’d say our relationship was something established on empty desire, desire to be something we were doomed to never become for one another.

He releases his grip a little too easily, and goes to put on his suit jacket. It’s all extremely uniform, this situation: comfortable, easy. He pulls the jacket on and goes to the bathroom to style his hair. I stretch my legs out on the extra large brown sofa and stare blankly at the shake he’s made me. I want eggs… maybe some bacon. He doesn’t have that, or anything really, in the fridge. This couch is so weird. I reach, begrudgingly, for the shake. He reappears posing in front of me, suited up. “You look great, babe”, I giggle. He runs over and wrestles me into the brown corduroy couch. I practically get lost in it before he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. I kiss him a little too hard, one more time as I watch him walk out the door and get in his little car, driving off to some god-awful sales job that doesn’t deserve him.

That night I get dressed at my parents house. We’re finally going out, I haven’t seen anyone all summer. I blast Bastille from my iPhone and dance a little, putting on some bronzer, drinking from a champagne glass filled with pink bubbly. I feel like myself. Tonight is an occasion. I love being together in public, to be wanted in public, to belong in front of a sea of old friends. I’ve almost finished the bottle when I goofily walk up the stairs to my darkened living room. Everyones asleep, but the night is just beginning.

I hear the door creak open and attempt to strike a pose on the couch in my dress and ankle boots. He walks up the stairs wearing his second jobs’ polo. I smile and say, “you ready for tonight, baby?” He walks over slowly, and kisses me deeply. He retreats into a deep slump on the couch, I can tell he’s exhausted. I awkwardly blurt out, “or we can just stay home..”. He nods and leans in closer, curling his hands around my waist and turning on Sports Center. I stare at the empty champagne glass, my lipstick still fresh on the rim, and I wonder somewhere behind the charade, where I’d lost my fun loving self along the way…