• The smell of July in the night-time

    by  • July 11, 2011 • Disappointment • 0 Comments


    I drove around in my car tonight at 2 a.m. I wasn’t tired and I wasn’t lonely. There is just something about the smell of July in the night-time that has an incredibly powerful pull on me. Everywhere I drove reminded me of the three years we spent together in this town that is neither of our home.

    I went to my first apartment. The hazy orange lights and the trickling fountain brought on a really strong nostalgia. It’s funny how we tamper with our own memories. For a time tonight, I thought I remembered being happy there.

    I drove by Wilson Park, and the sprinklers hitting the hot pavement gave off the smell of a summer rain. I breathed it in slowly, until I realized that we weren’t happy when we came here, either.

    It’s been a month since our break-up, and the dissonance in my mind is almost laughable. I want to have all of these great, romanticized memories of you and me. But in reality, I just don’t miss you. I feel like I should, which in turn makes me feel guilty. Because I don’t. And it’s time for me to come to terms with the fact that we had a really terrible, horribly dysfunctional relationship. If you had told me that I was beautiful even once every six months, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time desperately staring in the mirror. If you had bothered to do anything remotely romantic for me, I wouldn’t have had to lie to my mother all the time. By the way, labeling us as a “modern couple” was the worst possible way to get away with never opening doors, paying for dinners, or caring that night that our drunk friend kissed me on the mouth. I wanted to be cared about, and you just didn’t care.

    I don’t love you. I stopped loving you before our second anniversary. I stopped even liking you by our third. By the time I worked up the courage to leave you, you were just a bad taste in my mouth.

    What I really want to say to you, after being the weak one, the subservient, spineless coward, is this: maybe if you had bothered to treat me like the the smart, funny, and gorgeous woman that I’ve grown up to be, I wouldn’t already be fucking someone else.

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