L— Letter to London.

Tonight was the first time I felt actually jealous about the Redhead. Known him a while, built a friendly love, and then we built a friendly-love-and-then-some. I don’t know, I chew my thumbnail when I think about him. I don’t know, I smile when I think about him. I don’t know, my dad caught me smirking so I told my dad about him- leave me alone.

But, his impending bachelorhood makes him all the more feasible. He threw his hat in the ring as a genuine contender months ago. It was…bold. Sexy.

But now that I get to entertain the idea, now that I (god forbid) actually like it.

“I think we have something good, worth exploring. Best case scenario: I’ve moved for women in the past.”

So have I, so he’s in company with good crazy.

I have done a lot of wild things, I have loved a reckless amount of people in my lifetime. I have loved a fair share of wild things. I have been and continue to be a wild-thing-worth-loving. But I can genuinely say I have never gone the friends-to-lovers route. So it’s thorny, the goodbyes have gone staccato, caught in our throats. The casual “love you” of friendship that we’ve dropped for the sake of the silent,

“Maybe I could love you.”

So, we’re choking on maybe and hanging up phone calls for the sake of the other people lingering in our beds. The ex-husbands, the ex-fiancees, the girlfriends and boyfriends, and whatever in between. We sleep with a lot of ghosts. We dream of each other’s mouths. We make an awful lot of room for others in our beds, so it was striking for him to have said,

“I am buying a new bed frame”

and for me to have said,

“Which side will be mine?”

I spent today building furniture, trying to erase my apartment of the ghosts of old lovers. God forbid I build a home, god forbid I invite a man into it.

The doorbell kept ringing today. I have yellow roses on the table from the guy I am seeing. I keep expecting more flowers to arrive. I keep hoping for the doorbell ring to mean something. Wait a minute Mr. Postman, and all that.

So, between all the hiccups of normal life and grief and typical heartache, we find time to text, to call, to tell our life story, and to get interrupted when she comes home. Or when he calls. When we pretend this isn’t a thing. When I pretend he isn’t mine.

“I have to go, my booty call is arriving” I say

He writes back,
“Think of me when you cum”