Maybe Another Time

I’m going upstate for a few days this week to work on my first draft and to catch up on a shit-ton of reading. I also plan on taking lots of pictures considering i impulsively bought four rolls of film for like, $40.

Anyways, I’m writing this before I leave and I hope to have something good for when I come back. I’m half way through Leaves of Grass and All the King’s Men. These books, I feel, are going to make a lasting impact not only on my life, but on how I write.

With this post, I’m just trying to write from a girl’s and boy’s perspective.

 

Maybe Another Time

I’m going to find the girl I never thought I’d go after. She is a short, blonde haired psychology major, who just loves to go out of her way for other people. We had a brief moment in our lives, where we were together, but for reasons unbeknownst to me, and probably her as well, she turned me down as soon as we felt we were ready to take things to the next level.

I was depressed for way too long. We only went on a couple of dates.

From time to time, I text her, to see how she’s doing, but it’s always a hit or miss on whether or not she’ll actually answer back. I think she wants to see me grow a pair, and surprise her. I told her on the phone I would hop on a plane to see her, but she laughed and hung up. She didn’t tell me no, so I have no choice but to think she told me yes, if I dare, of course.

 

I just stepped off the plane and I’m waiting in the lobby, anxiously. I’ve never been on a plane and now that I think about it, I’ve never left New York. How am I supposed to find this girl? I try to call her, to tell her I need her to pick me up, but luck wasn’t yet on my side. I didn’t leave a message either; I know she won’t listen to it. I can’t do it through a text either; they’re too impersonal.

I sit on a chair and take a deep breath, allowing the gravity of the situation I stupidly put myself into, to bear down on my chest, shortening my breath, until I come up with a legitimate solution. I constantly go back and forth on whether or not I should have followed through. But I also realize that the hardest part is over. I just need a map.

I find a map. Tourists constantly use maps, I think to myself, and they need to travel, via plane, to the destinations where they will be considered tourists. Technically, I’m not a tourist because I don’t plan on going around the city just to look at random stuff. I have a specific purpose–a goal in mind.

 

“He’s a good guy, you know.”

“Am I not?”

“You are, but I need to see him, before I go.”

“You constantly talk about how you hate him. You want to see him now? When you’re at your worst?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“What did you mean?”

“Nothing. I don’t think you should see him. I think you think you owe him for not being with him, for constantly rejecting him. You think karma is playing a role in this. Like, if you don’t see him, you know whatever’s going on will only get worse.”

 

This traffic might literally kill me. The LIE during rush hour is horrible, but this is on another level. Everything you hear about the traffic here is false; it’s worse than what you hear. Five lanes, all backed up. How am I supposed to find her? We’ve moved maybe one mile in the past forty-five minutes. At this rate, I’ll find her sometime next week.

 

“I think I’m going to see him.”

“If you see him we’re done.”

“Alright, we’re done. Get out of my apartment.”

“This is my apartment. You get out!”

 

I wonder what she’ll be wearing. I love those low cut summer dresses, that catch every breeze that hits them. As dirty as it sounds, I hope to see the breeze blow just a little bit stronger, to reveal something that shouldn’t be seen in public, but I feel the breeze knows we can only get a taste, so it leaves us only with our imagination. There’s nothing wrong with imagining it. You’re not acting on it, hopefully. I’d hate to see you as one of those types jerking off in parks and cars and on the sidewalk or in alleys or whatever.

Enough. I have to find out where she lives. I remember her saying she lives by the airport. Her apartment shakes like an earthquake each time the planes fly overhead. Imagine that. Constantly being shaken your entire life. How could anyone live like that? I have to call her again.

 

He needs to stop calling me. The more he calls, the less I like him. There’s no such thing as privacy anymore. What does he need to talk to me for? I constantly treat him like shit. How could he not understand? But what am I doing? Why, I mean? It can’t just be an impulse. I know how to control myself, but why can’t I this time? Maybe I just need something different. We tried before and it was nice, but I think I was just too afraid.

No, I wasn’t afraid. I had an idea of what I wanted in life. I was trying to live the life I always imagined, and it was nice, but it’s time to switch things up. It’s time to experience something different. How am I supposed to know what life is really like if I just keep doing the same thing over and over? Technically, that makes me insane, not him. He is kind of crazy though.

 

I’ll tell her through text! She has to act if I do first. That’s what she’s always wanted anyways, to act. If I call her, she doesn’t have to answer or see what I have to say. With a text, she doesn’t have to open it, but she’ll see some of it and she’ll want to see more. She’ll go to delete it and she’ll read the entire thing. She’ll see I’m here and she’ll have to do something, which is what I think she wants.

 

I’m here. How can I find you? Is he serious? I ask him. Yes. Jesus Christ, that was a fast response. He has to be glued to his phone.

“You answered!” he tells me.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come get me.”

“I’m not here to get you. I’m here to be with you. Where are you?”

He’s going to kill me.

“I’m boarding a plane. My boyfriend left me.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. He was an asshole. I’m starting over. Why did you come find me?”

“I wanted to be with you.”

“I think you should move on, honestly. If it was supposed to be, I think we would have figured something out.”

“Why did you go on the plane?”

“I wanted to surprise you. I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

“I said I was going to.”

“I know, but I’m used to being the one that acts. I have to hang up. I don’t want to be responsible if the plane crashes. Keep me in mind. Move on, but don’t forget me, I mean. Maybe one day, if it’s meant to be, we’ll find each other.”

 

 

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