Part 1 of ?
My first boyfriend cheated on me for a year and a half.
I lost my virginity to him over Christmas break when he (told me he) had broken up with his girlfriend. They got back together, they were rocky for a while, apparently they didn't break up again? It's still not clear. (But yes, you're already seeing that "cheated on /me/" is a bit questionable.)
It used to be that I'd never say anything about it because it seemed like an easy excuse. Somehow, though, it has become a constant refrain in the last six months. And since the only thing worse than someone who doesn't understand, is someone who doesn't understand but is convinced he does, here we go.
June: We meet through a mutual friend.
July: One of my closest friends tries to kill herself. I can't sleep, eat, or (apparently) talk to anyone I know. He's the only person who notices.
August: Desperately in love, after spending many sleepless nights on his bed listening to Bob Dylan and Tom Waits (and watching him put functional glass art to near constant use), I finally figure out that he has a girlfriend. I've never been kissed, save at one game of spin the bottle (oh, and by that one creepy guy I was in a play with) so what do I care/think he wants, anyway?
Forced to leave for school a week before Nina Simone gives one of her last concerts ever down at the Pier, I hop the train headed for New York.
I have to write him a letter. I've brought all kinds of fancy stationary with me (I'm probably still using fountain pens at this point) and I start and stop over and over again, wasting sheet after sheet. He speaks in aphorisms. He's a poet. How the hell does a seventeen year old girl write a love letter to a poet (especially without admitting that's what she's doing)?
Also, I don't know his last name. Can you write a letter to someone without knowing his last name? Can you admit to the person you're in love with that you remember where the soft spot of his bed is, and how the crook of his elbow smells, but you don't know his last name?
He's still living with that guy who's sort of my friend. I'll just write to both of them! You can write "Daven and Dominic" on the name line much more gracefully than just "Dominic".
I'm reading /The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Siterhood/ that Sarah leant me, and everything by Kurt Vonnegut I could get my hands on (I've finished /Cat's Cradle / and /Sirens of Titan/ and probably /Mother Night/ by the time we hit Montana) and I just start sticking stuff in there. Quotes and reactions (like, book reports) and I stuff the thing full like a bag of party favors.
I hop off the train at Shelby, MT and stuff it in a mailbox.
I wish there'd been an "Oh, god [stick your arm down the chute]" moment, but those small-station pauses didn't last long.
Three days later I arrive in New York.
Sept, Oct, Nov: Every day I walk to the mailbox hoping to hear from him.
I lost my virginity to him over Christmas break when he (told me he) had broken up with his girlfriend. They got back together, they were rocky for a while, apparently they didn't break up again? It's still not clear. (But yes, you're already seeing that "cheated on /me/" is a bit questionable.)
It used to be that I'd never say anything about it because it seemed like an easy excuse. Somehow, though, it has become a constant refrain in the last six months. And since the only thing worse than someone who doesn't understand, is someone who doesn't understand but is convinced he does, here we go.
June: We meet through a mutual friend.
July: One of my closest friends tries to kill herself. I can't sleep, eat, or (apparently) talk to anyone I know. He's the only person who notices.
August: Desperately in love, after spending many sleepless nights on his bed listening to Bob Dylan and Tom Waits (and watching him put functional glass art to near constant use), I finally figure out that he has a girlfriend. I've never been kissed, save at one game of spin the bottle (oh, and by that one creepy guy I was in a play with) so what do I care/think he wants, anyway?
Forced to leave for school a week before Nina Simone gives one of her last concerts ever down at the Pier, I hop the train headed for New York.
I have to write him a letter. I've brought all kinds of fancy stationary with me (I'm probably still using fountain pens at this point) and I start and stop over and over again, wasting sheet after sheet. He speaks in aphorisms. He's a poet. How the hell does a seventeen year old girl write a love letter to a poet (especially without admitting that's what she's doing)?
Also, I don't know his last name. Can you write a letter to someone without knowing his last name? Can you admit to the person you're in love with that you remember where the soft spot of his bed is, and how the crook of his elbow smells, but you don't know his last name?
He's still living with that guy who's sort of my friend. I'll just write to both of them! You can write "Daven and Dominic" on the name line much more gracefully than just "Dominic".
I'm reading /The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Siterhood/ that Sarah leant me, and everything by Kurt Vonnegut I could get my hands on (I've finished /Cat's Cradle / and /Sirens of Titan/ and probably /Mother Night/ by the time we hit Montana) and I just start sticking stuff in there. Quotes and reactions (like, book reports) and I stuff the thing full like a bag of party favors.
I hop off the train at Shelby, MT and stuff it in a mailbox.
I wish there'd been an "Oh, god [stick your arm down the chute]" moment, but those small-station pauses didn't last long.
Three days later I arrive in New York.
Sept, Oct, Nov: Every day I walk to the mailbox hoping to hear from him.
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