What a view.
The lights sprinkled about the ground and you even offered me thought provoking facts about which building was erected when, what movie was allegedly shot on which roof top. The wind was a relief and your smirk was surprising. You hung close. This all could have been admirable. Perhaps.
You are a master of the body. Or so says your profession. But this frisky little fact my friend, did not prove to be fact. It was myth. Facade. You handled me poorly. You disregarded my physicality. You tore apart my dignity I surreptitiously hid in beneath my blonde hair.
Perhaps this is something you use to smooth over the real truth which may not actually be the real truth but what I think to be the truth. You used to eat nachos and cheese at the local pool when you were 10. Maybe you were the one at the pool party night for all baseball teams in the city and you took two corn dogs instead of one. You watched on the back of the bus as the group of guys you walked just slightly behind made fun of the girls and called them “sluts” even though no one had even really done much of anything yet, save Lindsay and her sad excuse for a hand job in someone’s swing set fort, settled high and slightly amidst the trees, somewhere around mid-July.
And now you’re an alleged yogi.
But this all may be false. I could just be making it all up. But one thing is for sure: you don’t get women. The complete disregard utterly fascinated me to be honest, allowing me to kind of separate myself from the reality at hand and watch from a comedic distance. I laughed at you is what I’m saying.
This also may just be bitterness on my part. Bitterness based on the realization that I was the girl at the community pool who didn’t eat two corn dogs. I actually bolted away from the concession table in fear the boys would judge me. I wore a pink bathing suit with paisley print in order to attract those with veering eyes, but I gathered up most of my body in a beach towel. So no one could really see.
And this may be my projection onto you. You who looked at me in an endearing way; a way which I could far from fathom to understand. You were the one they said went for “perfect 10s.” I couldn’t be any farther from it. Maybe a 5. Perhaps a 7 on a good day. But here I was showing you my perfected yoga moves (to be funny) and here you were taking me seriously as maybe someone to take home on the train.
I don’t want to call you an enigma because that would somehow give you credit or appeal. I just want to throw you and your kush off the balcony in the apartment your lake house parents are most likely helping you pay for since you have decided to “find yourself” through your current passion: YOGA.
You reminded me of him. His profound stature, his insights into the tao, his tai chi. His respect for nature, his delicious way to make kale, his hugs that span for days. His browned muscles.
But you don’t even compare. I hate that you don’t compare. You wear the mask but you don’t wear the man. You say you like kale but I think you like telling people you like kale. I think you like knowing that you like kale and that it’s something that you now know about yourself. It is now something to send you even further away from two corn dogs.
And herein lies the enigma that I hate I’m calling an enigma: why didn’t you live up to the man who showed me how to properly configure herself into dandasana? Why didn’t you even touch me? Is this Pretty Woman? You wouldn’t even kiss me. I apologize for being below a 10 on your scale which, for whatever reason, masqueraded itself to be sliding that night, but why show me city lights and do that whole stupid guy courtship thing if I was despicable? Why do you chomp on your gum so hard. Why didn’t I leave earlier.
So I absolutely despise you. You weren’t the boy I kissed sloppy on the playground, you were the one who watched and tallied points. And now you apparently drive a convertible and live in a high rise. And you “liked my personality.”
Well people don’t fuck personalities.
And I am despicable, come to think of it. Letting all of this happen and being playfully bombarded by prospective feelings of Specialness because it’s what I think I wanted. Believing I could never really be in the same room with the other Him who was genuinely interested in kale and was good at touching because I wasn’t as good as “those girls.” Believing I should just stay and not be a bitch. Playing a 10 in baby prostitution in order to reaffirm a self that is often lost. Believing that I wasn’t a 10 for you.
Come 4am, it was time to leave. I hailed a cab and left my dignity at your door.