Man in My Life

Man in My Life
by Hannah Pass
The man in my life is sitting next to me and tearing paper. Bus tickets. Old receipts.  I see him eyeing a map taped up on my wall, which I’m know more than anything he would like to tear to shreds.
“I’m telling you,” he says. “The feeling is very satisfying. Taking one thing and splitting it into two.” He motions with his fingers how easy it is, like peeling a banana. His knee is touching mine so I figure it’s okay to hold his hand so I take a hold of his hand and pet one of his knuckles. He squeezes then lets it go. And becomes distracted by my breasts. He grabs one, tries to fit it all in his palm.
We have been trying to leave each other for two weeks now but here we are together again on my bed with my breast in his hand. His bony arms covered in freckles. Too many to count and not enough to be considered adorable. We know things about eachother’s childhood, like how old we were when we touched another kid’s privates for the first time.
“You’re lucky I let you do that,” I say. “Girls don’t let you grab their breasts all the time. You can’t just go around grabbing breasts.” I knew this was an obvious truth, but it was my own little way of telling him that we had a special bond.
“Not true,” he says, massaging. “Guys. We do it all the time.” He winks and I try to fake a smile. I look around at my room, trying to evaluate my attempt at starting a life with organization. The yellow curtains that match my quilt that match my bedsheets. And then the litter box overflowing with clumps, some scattered across the carpet.
“We should make a baby,” I say, sitting up on my knees. “We should. You know, we would make a really cute baby.” I watch him flutter his eyelids, imagining the thought of a human being with both his DNA and my DNA, how dumb or brilliant that baby might turn out to be. I try to remember the reason that he came over here and then I remember how there never is a good one. We sleep together then brag about the other people we’ve be casually sleeping with.
“Oh yeah?” He laughs like you’ve got to me shitting me. He picks all my hair up off my shoulders, bundles it on top of my head and lets it fall slowly down in pieces. His own little way of making me look beautiful. “The world doesn’t need another me and you,” he says, letting the strands slip through his fingers.
Outside, an ambulance pulls up in front of my neighbors house, yelling and pulsing red. We both look across the street to see if we can see someone being carried out in a stretcher. I pull my shirt off over my head and unclasp my bra. For a second I am a bit excited to have sex with him.  The cops standing outside my window and all, listening in.

0 thoughts on “Man in My Life

  1. Aliens from outer space should read this. It’s painful in the way it pries into a private space. Well written.
    I’m curious about the last sentence in the sixth paragraph. Is the “be” supposed to be “been” or is it related structurally to the next sentence where it says “me” rather than “be”? Sorry. I can’t help but tear things apart when I see loose pieces.

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