Steve
I named my internalized misogyny. Steve. A pet. A creature. A heavy lunch settling as a rock in my gut. I don’t think of Steve, but he spends his days and nights curled at the bottom of my belly. Waiting for blood in the water.
It’s not me who rides waves of lust and hate as women stalk across the subway platform. “She can’t be real,” Steve whispers in my ear. Someone’s hotter older sister floats across the downtown platform. Never fumbling to find what she is looking for inside of her “Fighting Animal Testing” tote bag. Never reaching to adjust, pull, tug, at the crotch of her romper as it rides up the cracks in the front and the back. Never looking up as she reads from a nondescript leather bound book. Never tripping as she walks, never wobbling, on nondescript leather espadrilles. An improbable wet dream. No, no, no, a nightmare.
Steve possesses my fingers as I key out tweet, tweet, tweet. “How stupid. What do women mean they feel small in the world? Some are tall.” Too eloquent. Backspace, seventy-five times. “How fuggin’ dum. What do grlz mean they feel ‘small’ in the world? Sum r tall. lol. *smirk emoji*” Ah, that’s it. That’s the stuff. Steve grows larger in my cells as I shrink down, down, down, pushed to the edges of the E train car by elbow, by backpack, by sharp suited grin.
We gather at the table, business in the round. Rhonda can’t just let it go when Glen repeats her point louder, more confidently, better. “Great point Glen, that seems to be a rephrasing of what I just said, thanks for the added perspective.” A chuckle can’t hide. It rides the wave of an exclaimed “bitch.” Steve stands soaking, but never small, on the center of the board room table. Three fingers to palm, thumb out, pinky up. Hang ten! Each wave crests higher and higher as Glen, George, Mike, Scott, Jim, John, Eric, Brad, Tim, Kevin form a processional out of the room, patting me on the shoulder, back, head, head, head, back, shoulder, back, head, shoulder, as they exit. I can’t see where the wave ends, but I know, I know, I know, that Steve won’t ever hit the water.
Steve will rub the lotion on my bare legs as I step out of the shower, boneless skinless chicken breasts being oiled and ready to plate. He shines them up for my date. He never shaves my legs though. No. I do that for me, for me, only me.
As I text my friends after the date, “there wasn’t any spark.” Backspace, twenty-two times. Oh Steven, take the wheel. “I talked too much.” Send. “I laughed too loud.” Send. “My dress was unflattering.” Send. “*frown emoji* *frown emoji* *broken heart emoji*.” Send. Send. Send.
Steve picks the movie as we curl up in bed. Gently reminding me that I will fall asleep anyway, why do I care what we watch? An orgy of blood or car parts or tits, tits, tits, fills the screen. My lids get heavy. Steve hardens and fills. Steve cums, cums, cums. I fall into sleep.
I go to sleep alone most nights, but with Steve, Steve, Steve, I’m never lonely.
Originally Featured in July Friendship Comedy Collective Zine
