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We sat at a bakery and talked about how boys are assholes. We got coffee and baguette with butter, jam, and nutella and the waitress kept coming by, subtly trying to kick us out, saying is everything alright? And we would say, yes, everything is delicious.
We talk about the boy who took her out for one date and told her his parents were out to dinner, kept on flashing the condom in his wallet while he paid for half their dinner.
We talk about the boy who could only last thirty seconds before he came all over her chapped lips.
We talk about the boy who kisses her on Fridays, and another girl on Saturday nights, since labels only ruin something good. I hear he has a lot of girls over, his friend’s girlfriend tells her. We’re casual, she says. Casual my ass, his friend’s girlfriend says, I’m just saying, you might not want to make him your priority.
We talk about the boy you look at the clock the whole time you’re kissing. We talk about how he makes you so bored it’s like you’re standing in front of a refrigerator not knowing what to eat or looking at a photo album where you don’t know anybody and nobody’s having sex.
We talk about the boys who you don’t know, the boys who would take you to amusement parks or coffee shops, who would overwhelm you. You say you don’t know any boys. Nobody is good enough for you so far. You don’t know what you want but you want a boy.
We talk about the feeling that there isn’t any time. That we’re wasting half our brainpower daydreaming during class, and all the while time keeps on slipping by like silk underwear. I never expected that this would be how I would be spending my teenage years, you say. We keep saying that there’s next week and next week and next week and then there will be time but there never is.
We talk about the feeling when you suddenly get so desperately lonely like you’re alright and then all of a sudden you just get this feeling that sucks at your heart like a vacuum and you’re so cold, empty, inside, like the end of a really good book?
We talk about the feeling when he goes down on you and it surprises you every time, how submissive he suddenly is, makes you want to run your fingers through his hair, since you know he wants to be the one to make you happy.
We do not talk about the time that you play with my hair and let me cry on your shoulder on a park bench. I know that you a true friend because you make me a cup of tea and the whole ocean is inside of it.
We talk about the boy I never know what he is thinking. She says she thinks he will always be a little bit in love with me. I say if that were true something would have happened. I say I don’t even know why I am thinking about him and you give me an infuriating look.
You ask me what sex is like. It’s like this, I say, gesturing around to the three of us, to the baguettes with butter jam and nutella, sweeping our trust, giggles with a wave of my hand. She doesn’t know what I mean. That’s okay.
We talk about the boy who I just wanted to lie to. We talk about how you would do anything for a boy who makes you excited.
We also talk about why it’s worth it. It is the first time I say it out loud to anybody besides him. I am in love with him, I tell her, while you are in the bathroom. This big goofy grin breaks out across her face, and mine too. I don’t know how, I say, it’s not like what I expected.
What is it?
It isn’t desperate or crazy or insanely spontaneous. It’s eggs and toast love. But I think it’s better.
I smear nutella on a piece of bread. Is everything alright? Yes, yes, I say, everything is delicious.