Opening old wounds. My memory fails me. I peel back the gooey thin layer of the amnesic love my depression scarred over. The selective memory doesn't fail me now, for it knows I went through the grieving process twice to receive the single sobriety chip. As I set up Tinder dates in speech class it foreshadows my mother's words: "I hope you're not doing this for self-acceptance." I want a man, not a boy, Mother. No male with emotional imprisonments. In a steakhouse, I can fall silent to be awoken again by a man's questions.
Go-karting, drive-ins, a ride in a Tesla. Fireworks on a starry night deeply granted in my hopeless romantic psyche. Your arms around me in the bottom bunk of your aunt's lake house, whispering a funny sentence about toasted waffles or some breakfast gibberish in your silly voice. Little did I know, the morning after I was sitting at a table for one eating egg and potato medley while you sat on the couch ignoring me. Your aunt asked me questions only a serious lover would receive.
The night before you left for college, I cried in your arms for my mother's wrath, yet it was my predetermined psychic abilities telling me it was the last time I would be in your safe embrace. "This might be cheesy, but you make me feel safe," I admitted to you while sitting on a basketball shivering in my backyard. That night you gave me a side-hug and I teased you for it ever since. "We will find a way," you told me on your bed with our hands interlocked. The untruthful lust in your eyes told me something else. They whispered Florida. The last night I saw you, I realized I never knew you. Your voice changed much softer. 4 months unfamiliar.
He took my hand and moved it in a meticulous jilting pattern. Looking puzzled, he did it again. "Do you know what I'm doing?" I shook my head. "The gears," he simply replied. Speeding through the switchback roads, his "Mom Car" repeated Tokyo Drift; my curfew was going to expire. He had to get me home. My real home. The one I tried to erase in my lovely distraction. A man's man they would say. To let me know they still exist.