I didn’t really remember meeting you, to be honest. I’d had too much wine.
The only part I remember is standing on the second stair of a stoop step to kiss you and then you carrying me over your shoulder up six flights of stairs to look at the moon on your roof somewhere over Lower Manhattan.
You got me a taxi home and I never planned on seeing you again. The only reason I’d even agreed to come meet you was because when he’d left that afternoon, I knew it was over with him and the ugly vindictive part we all have somewhere inside of us wanted to spite him.
The funny part was, once I’d agreed to see you again, I forgot all about him. You were all of the things that he wasn’t.
Months later when I’d grown attached and you’d grown cold and distant, he reappeared as if in knowing he had an opening. Knowing that I was feeling hurt, neglected, weak.
At times I felt guilty. Other times I knew you were doing the same thing. He didn’t know a thing about you and am sure your ego your ego wouldn’t have allowed you to think I’d ever dare to stray.
He was all of the things that you weren’t.
A circle of people doing the same thing to each other. Everyone’s heart just a little bit somewhere else.
I thought about you when I was with him. I thought about him when I was with you.
This was the first time I realized you could love two very different at people at the very same time.