I had one foot out the door when I stepped into your apartment. We had an arrangement; you had a separation. It was supposed to be fun.
It wasnât supposed to be a seven-hour conversation. Wasnât supposed to be you, with a hole in the crotch of your jeans, telling me my impending union was a trauma response. It certainly wasnât supposed to be sex that cracked the sky. It wasnât supposed to be three weeks of texted admissions, pining over silver ellipses, falling over 5G, waiting for a second date.
It wasnât supposed to get weird, but it did. Your words, not mine. You thought you could handle holding just one of my hands, but you couldnât. How could I tell you I wanted to give you both of them? How could I tell you I would have left?
Youâre the one that got away. I havenât been able to listen to Carly Rae Jepsen since.