I write this to you now but I know five words in its a futile venture, you will never read it. What was said couldn’t be taken back, what happened was a mistake and I’m going to work on coming to peace with it. I know my words cut you and even when it was happening I couldn’t stop and I am sorry for that. I don’t seek to justify but I feel like I owe you a better answer than my hung-over apologies the next day.
You see, I can remember the first time I saw you as clearly and intensely as some of the more traumatic parts of my life. I was working at the coffee shop at our school, a morning shift with clay just as an excuse for free coffee and breakfast. The clicking of high heels on the slate floor caught my attention as soon as you rounded the corner and headed in my direction and all I could do was stare, the yolk of my breakfast sandwich dripping down my fingers and landing on the counter. You were wearing an airy white blouse tucked into an intensely tight black skirt that had a slit up the side to reveal even more of the fishnet stockings that clinged to your legs. You drank your cup of coffee at the counter looking at me through your oversized glasses, your lipstick left ruby red prints on the glass that I washed off after you left as Clay was going on and on saying ‘I’m going to fuck that girl so gross’ blah, blah, blah. All I wanted to do was take you to dinner and look into your eyes and kiss you if you let me. But yet before I got the chance to smile at you and talk to you more than a handful of times you ended up in the bed of Clay and it wasn’t just a one-time thing.