“Jesus, what do you want from me?” He almost yelled. “I can’t make you
understand if you won’t try.”
“Nothing” I told him, sincere. “I want nothing from you. I don’t want
your pathetic excuses or your justifications. I don’t want your company or your
affection. I don’t want you to tell me I smell good or be jealous that I have
moved on in the years that you have been absent. I don’t want you. I don’t want
anything to do with you” He
was staring at me, blank and not quite shocked.
I walked away, fast. I was on the street, waiting for the lights to turn
green when I felt a hand grab my arm. I spun around involuntarily.
“What?!” It was my turn to yell. “I'm done here.”
He grabbed hold of my face and kissed me. He tasted like rum and regret.
I kissed him back, interested to see if it’d changed in all of those years. It
had. What used to be sweet innocence and nervousness had turned into a fierce
wanting filled with words he couldn’t speak out loud. It wasn’t the same, and I
didn’t like it.
I’d liked him when he was young. I’d liked him when he shook because he
was scared to be close to me. I’d liked him when he listened to what I was
saying as if it were important. I’d liked him. I didn’t like him anymore. I
pushed him away.
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