She’s Not My Type
She’s not my type. That’s how I’d open the book I’ll never write about her—about the girl who takes my breath away, fills my head with things I can’t switch off, and drives my libido to the edge of something that doesn’t respond to reason. I could write thousands of pages about Ana. Every word would be true. Every word would be a waste.
She doesn’t love me. I know that. And somehow, maybe because I know it, I want to be near her every available second. Idiot.
The two of us had been many things—allies, secret fuck-buddies, something that looked like a couple from a distance. I’d convinced myself I was over her. Then we spent a week inseparable again: trips around Bavaria, two-player sessions in Monkey Island 4, evenings tangled together on the couch in front of the TV. Exactly like before. Exactly the problem.
I’m stupid for letting it happen again. For the fact that I can never be angry at her. For the fact that every story she tells me about some guy she’s been with tears something open in me. She doesn’t know she can do that. She doesn’t know she’s the only one who actually can. And she doesn’t do it on purpose—which makes the whole thing so much harder. If she were cruel it would be simple.
What kills me is my own inconsistency. That I can never say what I mean when I’m near her. That I can’t close this. She’s not my type—I keep telling myself that. Her fine blonde hairs at the nape of her neck. The small red spots on her cheeks. Her incredible tits. I would have given anything to be closer, always closer. And the closer I got, the more I breathed her in, the more something inside me quietly died. I knew it the whole time and kept going anyway. Everything else stopped mattering.
Love can be a beautiful thing. This was just self-destruction with no one to blame but me.
I’m going to Berlin and leaving the wreckage here. I’d wanted to be settled before I left—clean, resolved, done with it. That’s not happening. I won’t write the book. I refuse to spend another pseudo-poetic word on something I didn’t even fight back against, and I’m genuinely sick of the sound of my own whining about it. I could write the tough-guy line right now: forget her, time to fuck until the doctor comes. I’m young and horny and alive, mothers hide your daughters. Where’s the nearest bar, time to get properly drunk with the boys. But none of it would change anything, and I know it, which is the whole problem.
I’m an old romantic when I’m not careful. She’s not my type, though. The girl.