From across the street to the car, It wasn’t the echo of her black heels on pavement, or the way her auburn hair bounced with every inch she carried herself under the amber streetlights, or how she saw right through him with empty eyes when she opened the passenger door. It wasn’t the, “Hurry the fuck up, Jordan.”
It was the first time they met at that Bruin frat party with their backs pressed against walls. It was the way their words stumbled out of their mouths, and how they bent down to pick them up because they cared enough to hand-deliver their pasts and presents with shaking hands.
It was, “I remember you held my hands still because you saw they were shaking,” when they lay under white comforters shaded gray with the blue morning in a Santa Barbara beach house they rented out for a weekend. Their thumbs ran over their swollen lips and their toes made the sheets whisper. It was the condom he crinkled in his wallet when searching for bills to pay for their afternoon ice cream that dripped onto their lips which they smeared off with sloppy kisses.
It was the third time she sucked at his lips and clawed at his back in the women’s handicap stall. Her mother was a couple doors down in a coma. It was when she strained tears into his shoulder, but she had cried all the tears from her childhood scooter boo-boo’s and her teen angst pillow talks. All her blues left her brown eyes, and pocketed themselves into the bags under her eyes. It was when she what-if’ed the possibility of feeling every emotion possible, and that every following emotion was a lesser form of the original. It was when they were in their thirties.
It was when they were in their twenties, living together, occupying the years with numerous arguments over the open toilet seat or the unreplaced toilet roll or the shitty parking in the garage so that when either of them squeezed in between the car and their cardboard boxes of junk, dark smudges appeared on the sides of their suits and dresses before work. It was the numerous times they thought about ending the relationship. It was the numerous times they felt unfulfilled, and how, “one person cannot fulfill all your needs.” He said that. She believed it, even though she denied it. It was the numerous times they were stuck in traffic thinking about the future. It was the rare times they would wake up in the middle of the night scared about death..
It is the youth and embarrassment they feel even when they are sixty. It is the daydreams they wish to live, and the physical bucket list they privately stored in their imaginations, noting whose idea was who’s in each other’s grocery list handwriting. It is the way they see themselves in their son and daughter, and how they see their son and daughter in their sons and daughters. It is the dust mote moments they will later regret not appreciating when they happen.
“Hurry up, Jordan,” he hears again. And he does.
— It Seemed Like A Single Moment Brought Her There, via (shotdownartist)