What could you possibly hate about a new relationship? No, no, besides all the times the check arrives. No, aside from the meeting of families, or the friends of his who are still friends (and huge admirers) of the her that was once his.

I could possibly hate the underside of beds, what’s hiding in the backs of closets, the email folders dedicated to the woman who was once upon a time dealing with all these same news. I hate the bookshelf, with books, given as gifts, as thoughts, as stops at his office, just because, left with a doorman, inscribed.

Shoe boxes are the worst. It’s like someone took a course or something, because who even keeps shoe boxes anymore? Who even has things you can hold anymore? Most everything I have anymore is on a screen taking up a window of space, that’s too small and neat, and tucked away to even notice. No one inscribes books anymore.

If you were my lover, I’d buy you books, inscribe them, and wrap them up in shoe boxes, with a photo of us attached, me on your lap, in a t-shirt, no bra, us kissing, and the back would be signed simply: yes.

I never imagined a world where yes would be more painful than no until just now. The thought of finding his once upon a life ago, where yes’s were exchanged, where he got through all their no’s, and said yes anyway. And despite all that, there he is with me, shaking his head no, while he says yes.

A YEAR AGO: Five Stop Tour Schedule For Moose
2 YEARS AGO: Role Models
4 YEARS AGO: Lie To Thyself
5 YEARS AGO: Chicken Shite