Dating : The Stranger Who Wouldn’t Love Her

“I could never love you,” she states as her stomach churns, head spins, and heart splits. Haughtiness is her go-to when anxious or uncertain.

“Good. I don’t want anyone’s love. Too much hassle. What type of bread did you want?”

“Cinnamon raisin.”

She watches his back disappear into the Waffle House.

She pledges to never speak to him until he admits he loves her in return.

He returns to the car.

She breathes in the carcinogens and grease comforted then filled with regret as her unsettled stomach jumps.

They eat their morning after breakfast sandwiches and gulp their vodka spiked orange juice quietly.

He doesn’t mind, notice, or perhaps care. She never can tell.

She has too much to say, so she purses her thin lips after every second, tiny bite.

She looks at the reflection of her lap in the windshield instead of him. Her inner lap pleads with her to reconsider this love crusade and beg him to eat her for breakfast. The argument between her crotch and her dead grandma who constantly warned of dying a lonely, loose, cat woman, spinster becomes as deafening as this new quiet.

Sad, how someone new and talkative with strange zombie romance novellas and hang-ups about his tinder profile and fascism wrapping around his cerebellum after one night could become so sullen.

It served her right for being picked up at a feminist performance art piece of videoing bright pink washing machines while bricks inside destabilized then destroyed them.

Proper one night stands are made at bars and dance halls. She cannot remember through her fog if she or her dead grandma advised her of this truth.

His continued pointed unresponsiveness draws her back to the moment.

His change makes her want to tickle him till he cries and smother him till he dies.

She does neither. She will not be the weird or fatal one this morning.

As he approaches her block, she begins to rummage through her purse glad to have something to do with her hands.

He drops her home without opening her car door or walking her to her porch.

She stands at her front door slightly drunk swaying and praying to find her house key.

He drives away before she eases the key into the lock.

He doesn’t call or text.

She pretends she doesn’t mind, notice, or perhaps care.

Pretense is her go-to when hurt.