“I was just telling a friend of mine the other day,” he began to tell me a few weeks ago from the bar stool next to mine, “Man, she is so chill, all the time. The most easy-going chick I’ve ever known.”
I could feel my eyes begin to roll with annoyance, as I picked at the paper label wrapped around the beer in front of me. The usual discomfort that consumes me when I receive a compliment, in addition to the discomfort of being uncertain how to remain unbothered by something that clearly bothers me.
It’s comical that I’ve used “easy-going” to describe myself almost my entire life but hearing it in your voice bothers me.
If I’m being honest, I hate that you think I’m easy-going. That cool, calm, and collected personality that you love so much doesn’t come easy for me when you’re here.
“Easy-going” is not how I would describe the Sunday mornings that I was telling you to FUCK OFF for having shown up at our bar with another girl the night before. “Easy-going” is not how I would describe the novel-sized text messages I would send you telling you what an asshole you are for dating everyone but me, since 2019.
It’s not “easy-going”, it’s waging a war within myself just so I can sit in your presence for an hour or two.
I remember laying around on your couch about a year ago, when you stopped mid-sentence to answer your phone: “Hey Magen.”
I laughed out loud, and immediately hoped she heard me.
Of course, it’s Magen.
The reason I constantly heard “No” since the day I met you.
No, you can’t come over. No, you can’t talk right now. No, we can’t date.
But you’d still fuck me in your shower anyway. You’d still lift my dress up after you tossed me onto the bar in your guest house. On the floor at 3am after the bar. Over your kitchen counter with our clothes thrown all over the living room. In your driveway over the hood of my car. You’d still pay for my drinks, and fill up my gas tank, and take me to breakfast on my birthday. Tell me I’m beautiful and kiss me at the bar in front of everyone, anyway.
“I’m just dating this girl right now,” you told me for over a year. “It just wouldn’t be right.”
Of course, she’s calling. Of course, you’re answering.
“I’m just sitting around the apartment with Micaela,” you told her.
She said something back that I couldn’t hear.
I remember sinking into your couch. Surprised that you called me by name, and grateful I couldn’t make out what she had responded with.
“I don’t think so,” you told her, before pulling the phone away from your lips to look at me:
“You’re not obsessed with me, are you?” You grinned at me.
I could feel my cheeks suddenly burning bright red. It felt like all the whiskey suddenly hit me at once. My legs suddenly felt weightless in your lap. I had to say something, anything.
After all, the three of us were just sitting there, waiting.
“Clearly, I’m madly in love with you.” I said, giving sarcasm my best shot. I put my whiskey glass back up to my lips. What was I supposed to do? Awkwardly fumble denial?
She ended the call without saying anything else. You chuckled in response and tossed your phone back on the ottoman. I forced a smile back at you, and quietly finished my drink.
I’m so easy-fucking-going.
I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me when you look for a reason to disapprove of who I’m dating:
He’s too old for you, He doesn’t treat you well enough, You can do better.
I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me each time you say your current relationship “isn’t that serious”. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me each time you call me beautiful, or creative, or strong, or smart. Any time you tell me it’s so much fun to hang out together. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me when you leave the bar at 2:00AM without me. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t make me boil over with laughter any time you tell me she did something that turned you off. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me that you didn’t check on me the morning after.
“You’re 110 percent right. That’s super shitty of me. I’m sorry. I should have been communicating.”
I’m tired of pretending that I don’t love you, or that I’m not in love with you, or that I haven’t been in love with you for the past three years. I’m tired of pretending that this type of unconditional one-way love isn’t completely unhealthy for me.
Your silence is screaming. Hope we’re ok.
No no no we’re fine.
I’m tired of being so easy-fucking-going.
Wild Little Hare 