To the Boy Who I Didn’t Text Back

This one’s for all the real women who prefer a booty call with a brain.

I know what you want, and I don’t care. You see, I’ve gone through this before. And the journey has allowed me to determine pretty rapidly, within the first two minutes of being with someone, who they are. Initially, I saw you were a smart and suave dude who didn’t quake in your boots looking a girl in the eyes. You came with experience, to which I sighed with relief. But after “who you are” comes, “what you’re about,” which many people attempt to conceal at first. The duration of that effort is where I calculate what it is exactly that you want from someone like me.

You walked into a bloody scene in the bathroom, finding me nursing my ankle which was propped up on the counter in a one legged stance that can only be described as temporary. I cut it shaving, and you grabbed a bottle of my roommate’s lime-flavored Burnetts’ from the kitchen and dabbed a paper towel. I let you apply it to my wound for about three seconds before I realized that I had a limited time left being upright in this particular position, and wouldn’t it be so much more chivalrous if you held my ankle while we were both sitting comfortably on my bed?

You asked if I was hungry, but it was almost 11pm when I had you come over. To be honest, if dinner was your idea of breaking the ice with me, you should have said something that afternoon when I told you I wouldn’t be home until at least 10. I excitedly told you that I made my grandmother’s fried rice recipe that week and how much everyone said it tastes like No. 1 China on steroids and brown sugar. You made some small talk about the size of the Tupperware container before pointing through the clear top to mock the brown, chunky appearance of the dish from which I’d been living off that week. I explained that it didn’t look like much, but for me, it was the Holy Grail of 10-minute stir fry dishes. I went into detail about the nutritional value of these particular ingredients for the way I live my life, a conversation that shouldn’t have bored you given the fact that I’ve told you how much cooking means to me and how I’d like to study nutrition and open a tea shop.

“Oh so you’re like really serious about this, huh.”

Unfortunately, you missed any opportunities to be or feign even the smallest degree helpful, funny or reassuring when I spilled my glass of wine all over the floor. You didn’t move an inch while watching me clean it all up and listening to me nervously explain that I am a clumsy person. You just smiled like you enjoyed watching me squirm. I was a lion getting whipped at the circus, and you were taking video.

You called me awkward because I giggled and flopped a lot during sex, among other observations, I’m sure. Yet you don’t intimidate me at all. You even asked me if I knew what I was doing until I shoved you down and made you learn. I should probably thank you for the self-esteem boost that came with me feeling absolutely no need to impress someone who looks half as good as you. I moved next to you and whispered, “I’m not awkward. You just perceive me that way.”

Netflix wasn’t working and I asked you to leave. You were just giving me a bunch of compliments for my commitment to 4 AM practice, and now it’s 12 AM on the same day and I ask you to leave because I can’t think of anything more that I want than to be alone in my own bed for a peaceful night of sleep in which my limbs can flail wherever my dreams take me. I don’t want to run to the bathroom at the first crack of dawn so you don’t see my messed up morning face. I don’t want you to tell me that it’s “cute” when I snore, although I’m starting to think you wouldn’t. I even made up an appointment for my grandmother the next morning so that I could tell you that I have to leave at 5am. “That’s okay,” you offered, “I’ll be up at 4 for work.” And then you fell asleep. Motherfucker.

I ran upstairs and crawled into bed with my roommate. We talked for three hours until she fell asleep on her plans and I lay wide awake listening to her phone ring. I suppressed the need to pee in the only bathroom in the house which was right next door to you. Three of my roommates came home while you were sleeping. I forgot to close the door to my bedroom, the soft light illuminating you like an angel and I swear to god I never looked at a sleeping person with more disdain. I crawled into bed with roommates 3, 4 and 5 and watched them simultaneously slip into their ketamine comedown slumber. I waited yet another two hours to hear your footsteps leave the house, yet hearing nothing, and woke up having to pee.

Any time I offered you a piece of myself, you didn’t notice. Whether I tried to have a conversation with you, or be myself in any capacity, you laughed quickly and tried to keep the conversation going where there already was one, or could have been one, had you just been listening to me.

I didn’t text you back because you unwittingly offered me only your body and not your friendship. I’m sorry for not feeling like giving you a second chance, but regardless of spelling it out for you or not, I don’t think you’re my type. Please don’t ask for your sock back because I already threw it out.