Solo

Being taken was somehow more attractive than being available—women materialized when you were already committed, like they could smell the unavailability. That’s how it worked for years. Now I’m actually single again, properly single, and I’m waiting for the inverse to happen even though it probably won’t.

First is the room. Photos come down. Things of hers that accumulated around the place get collected and boxed up and shoved somewhere dark. It’s starting to feel like a ritual, this operation of packing someone away. By now I could probably do it in the dark.

I’ll have to tell my mom she won’t be running into Rebecca at the store anymore. Rebecca’s parents think I’m a piece of shit, and they always will, because they’ll never hear her side. I’ve made peace with that—I’m just the villain in their story and it doesn’t matter what I say.

Then there’s the social machinery. New clothes. More parties. The clubs kill me, especially in winter. The noise, the anonymity, the crush. My thing is talking, finding the angle, saying what lands. You can’t do that when you’re screaming. I’m not built for club hunting and I know it.

But I’m not going to force anything. Maybe being single for a while is fine. Maybe it’s better than I think. Or maybe when nothing’s working I’ll just pay for it. Anyway. Here we go.