“Don’t worry,” he wheezed, as I left the classroom last. “You’ll be a heartbreaker one day; you’ll see.” A few days later, his heart shut down and he died. That’s pretty much how it started.
Now I’m stretched on someone else’s summer blankets and wondering how it ends.
And I remember the winter when it was too cold to tell the truth, I stole that car to see you. You were dying; you said so, and even though it was just a bag of bad drugs and a fever, I drove so fast I hit a wall. I spiked tea with Nyquil and crushed Xanax. My party dress stained with lip gloss and blood. I didn’t care. I curled around your outline to make sure you kept breathing. We didn’t talk; we didn’t have to.
Now we don’t talk either, but that’s different. That’s not folded hearts on a futon. That’s the jagged truce that keeping ourselves together means keeping each other apart.
Here’s the thing that’s silly but scares me: In four days, we’ll be in the same place at the same time. Is it wrong if I don’t want to see you? Is it wrong if I do? I still can’t decide. But I bet you can.
[DAN HOERNER - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]