Casual-ish

Entering an open relationship feels like shoplifting and getting away with it because your smile is sexy as fuck and the security guard was too charmed to really notice his job. And then it feels like you signed up to have your stomach vacuumed out from inside you while you were fully conscious. For me at least. Maybe for you it’s different.

Drinking beers with you feels devious when I know you have a girlfriend. It feels even more devious when she knows where we are and what will probably happen after. When you put your hand on my knee during your story, casual-like, I am drunk and happy. Every time you mention your girlfriend, I feel unbearably progressive. I imagine being a grandmother one day, and casually dropping stories about my overlapping lovers. My daughter’s daughter will be impressed with my hipness. I am pretty impressed with my hipness.

By the third time we sleep together, we have some running jokes. When we get beers the fourth time, you hold my thigh. When you mention your girlfriend, I change the subject, so casually you don’t even notice. By the eighth time we sleep together, I am regularly googling your girlfriend. She shows up just under the Facebook search bar every time I try to type something new in- even the internet knows I am obsessed. She is what I think about now. Actually, I am also thinking about all your new Facebook acquaintances. How many girls are you watching Making a Murderer with?

I online date. I keep it from getting too deep with everybody I see. No one is quite like you. Some are okay. One guy, I sleep with a few times, and he makes me laugh while we hold hands in the botanical gardens. I tell you about my dates. You are neither too interested nor too dis-interested, and I hate you for it. You tell me you love me, and mean it, and I tell you I love you, and mean it. And then I can’t help myself and I ask, how many people do you tell you love them? Just you and my girlfriend, you say.

And you mean it, and I know you mean it, and when we started this, I knew this was exactly what it could mean. When I go home that night, I scroll through Netflix. It is one of your nights with her, and I imagine the two of you, cuddled up watching your shared show with your shared running commentary. I tell myself I signed up for this, that I went in fully conscious, but even I can see that it no longer feels all that casual.