You Can Make Him Like You
I pulled at my underwear, grateful for the 30 kilos I lost this year. I sucked my stomach in as if his eyes hadn’t been analysing my naked body for the last 6 hours, but old habits die hard.
My underwear glided over my thighs, as I silently, thanked the gods for the lacy, constricting number I had chosen in the evening’s rush. I had travelled miles away from the comfort of my grey boxer briefs.
He watched me longingly from his throne. His back against the wooden frame that had supported me so diligently just a few hours before. He laid there silently, his bay windows allowing the morning sun to plant a dewy glow against my skin.
I tiptoed across his floorboard to the pile of books he homed, circumventing the penny board and Olympus camera which blocked my path. His body sat waiting for me, the duvet creating waves around his waist, exposing a forest-like vista of pubic hair.
“Enjoying the view? I am.”
I am lost in the realm of Moby Dick, The Kite Runner, and To Kill a Mockingbird and his question catches me off guard. I laugh nervously. 5 months together and I still feel like a feral child on their first day of school.
“Come back to bed”
“I can’t. Your mother will be here soon.”
His eyes widen with the puppy dog gaze I have become accustomed, but not immune to. I approached the bed and he pulls me into a sweet embrace, his nose closely following the moistened highway markings his lips left behind. He paused to watch me; his eyelids housed a nursery of stars.
Next time I will tell him I love him. I make a quiet declaration that is interrupted by the sound of his metal gates creeping open. I peel myself away, unravelling our jibing limbs. I rush to put my clothes on, trying my best to smooth away the “just fucked” glow that always followed our evenings together. I run to the door, preparing a mental checklist of everything I came with.
“I’m seeing you on Wednesday, right?”
“Is the Godfather the greatest movie ever made?”, I winked and ran out of the door.
I fly down the stairs, hoping this isn’t the moment I met his mother for the first time. I should have known better and that bad luck seems to follow me around. His mother is waiting outside. I flash my PR smile, hoping to see her again in less crude circumstances.
I knew I wouldn’t hear from him until Tuesday. It was his style and I was okay with it, or so I thought.
Tuesday 10:35 pm
“Hey superstar, are we still game for tomorrow?”
The messages take longer than usual to deliver. I think nothing of it at first but soon I am greeted with the familiar single tick and barren profile picture. Maybe his phone was stolen or he had to run out of the country. I told myself these things to cradle myself to sleep.
The morning illuminated the harsh effects of a restless night. I search for my phone. Hopeful that the evening’s events had been the result of a vivid dream — a common reality of serotonin uppers.
Three notifications. All from my best friend, none from him. I flicked to his chat, hopeful for the double tick. I was met with false hope as my knees married the hardwood floor.
He was gone.
In the months that followed, I grew blind with rage. Riveted by his betrayal. How he robbed me of closure, but really, I was just sad. My tears cascaded uncontrollably as I paid tribute to the love I had lost. He had held me on days I could barely breathe and kissed me at the finish line of numerous triumphs.
The world we had built crumbled like a prehistoric civilisation, one where I am left desolate, comforted only by our memories.
The thing is, he will grow to have a house, a wife, a dog, and some kids; and I’ll just be the byproduct of this terrible thing he did because you can make him like you, but you can’t make him love you.
