He said,“I don’t love you,” behind sunglasses either protecting his expression held aways in his eyes, or the wild new sun—that had been gone so long (like Him) that this first fake summer day in the spring with its record-breaking temperature and the luxury of being close to the summer solstice—brought to everyone a certain giddy wonder.
It felt like that the longing so many have for a of a long day like in summer was actually happening. There was a certain anticipation: “life is going to get fun again, anything can happen.” A magical day to be sure; a connection as the towns people reacted to the hint of summer’s magic in their own way: such as awkward girls you see in yourself (and that thank God you have at least been released from that torture) parading in shorts in pale legs with uneven spray-tan and smiles fake and uncertain; revealing in their brightness—their thoughts: “Is it too early to wear this? I really don’t know. It’s too hot for blue jeans but I feel like a fool in this skirt. Is my makeup too bright for the sun?”
He sits there, gracing me unexpectedly with his presence. My mother detects the gravel parting and crashing, the engine exuding its power that demands men to pay the price to buy certain cars, and he arrives while I am still clueless in my apartment (to be generous) on my mom’s property. I get this call while curled up staring at the computer, all flustered and angry at my last foolish social media fruitless yet time-consuming attempts to master it, even though a glimpse outside that morning made me aware of the upbeat rush of the first truly beautiful hint of summer-day we have had since last September. I get a call from my mother saying, “Guess who is here?”
He is leaning back in a lounge chair by your pool opened that day, sipping vodka and ice on a Saturday afternoon with his hand holding your thigh and an ice cube slipping upwards in between your legs, whispering in your ear, “I don’t love you. I never will.”