not every lose is a loss

“I need your feedback on something,” I told him as I dropped my backpack onto the back of his dining room chair.
“Rocks?” he glanced up from the other side of the kitchen island.
“Nah, I’m good,” I casually waved my hand above my head, looking up just long enough to catch him scrunching his nose.
“Gross.” He laughed as he poured the last of the whiskey into an empty glass.

I thought back to 2019, El Verano de Divorcio:
I’d made a habit of letting myself into his house. After work. On the weekends. After the bar. Borrow power tools. Play with his goats. Steal his booze. Fuck in the shower.
He never seemed to mind.
“That summer was crazy,” he told me last year, elbows on the bar.
I shook my head with a laugh, “no kidding. Literally just flying by the seat of our pants.”
“The whole time!” He laughed.

I stopped to take a look around his house. My plants in the kitchen sink. My laundry across the couch. My shoes lined up at the front door next to his.
I remembered one summer morning, when I’d found my earrings neatly placed on my outdoor table. I spent the day trying to figure out why my feelings were hurt? I’d asked him to drop them off, and here they were;
I loved the idea of my stuff at his place.

“Sounds like it’s been a one-sided relationship,” he told me after I’d settled into the couch. “And to be honest, I’d be upset, too.”
I watched him move about the kitchen before he looked up at me. I always wonder how obvious it is when I’m battling the tears welling up in my eyes. I always wonder how it’s possible that he’s so good at nurturing my inner child.
She’s literally always screaming for emotional validation. My poor, sweet girl.

He suddenly turned himself to face me on the couch: “I can’t believe how well you’re handling the stress.”
Fuck, I thought to myself. We’d had far too many talks that started just like this one, for me to not see what was coming next. He’s gonna make me talk about my feelings.
“Glad I’m hiding it well,” I huffed impassively.
I thought about all the times we’d sat around the house before, and he’d randomly assault me with my own feelings like this. The air was still for a moment, and I wished so badly he’d just put his focus back on the game. I could feel his eyes on me still: “how are you handling the stress?”
He was really going for the gold on this.
I paused for a moment. I wanted to dramatically throw my arms in the air: You’re fucking looking at it, guy.
I raised the glass of whiskey he’d handed me earlier.
He laughed, and finally looked away: “I’m sorry so much is happening at one time.

Not every lose is a loss.”