It only mattered that I was beautiful.
My little sister sits on the bed paging through a glossy magazine full of shiny pink lips. “You’re not really going to go see him, are you?” she asks.
POCKETS FULL OF PROMISES BY BLUE KIRKPATRICK 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 90
He hasn’t texted me all day. My hand trembles as I apply lipstick, leaning in close to the bathroom mirror, close enough that I can see each pore in my wide cheeks gaping open, laughing at me.
My little sister, Annie, sits on the bed in the open doorway behind me, paging through a glossy magazine full of shiny pink lips. She catches my eye in the mirror. “You’re not really going to go see him, are you?” she asks.
I shake my head at her. “I have to see him.”
“You don’t have to do anything, Vivian.”
I say nothing. She lets the pause sit, uncomfortable between us, then adds, “What about Amy?”
“Don’t talk to me about her. She’s not my problem.”
I plop down on the bed beside her, pulling out my phone and opening Bumble, feigning relaxation.
I do need to see him. Nothing else will take away the ache. In moments when I am caught with nothing to do, nothing to think, I notice it like a sock that has been hidden under the bed all along. I can’t remember where it came from or when it began. Maybe it was there right from the get-go. Maybe it’s built in, part of my fundamental technology, inextricable.
I can’t figure out whether he’s not texting me today because he’s finally gotten tired of me or if he’s just busy. He’s probably just busy but it’s better to assume he’s over me. That way, if it’s true it won’t hurt so bad. Besides, of course he’s over me. It was inevitable. But what if he is just busy? Is this even a big deal at all? I have to be reasonable. I have to be mature. If he is over me, though, it’s going to sting so badly.
The more I scroll through Bumble, the more pessimistic I become. No, no, no, no, left, left, left, left, I’m convinced there’s no-one in the world I can even half tolerate. Left, left, left. It makes me feel better in some way to see all these sad, ugly motherfuckers.
But even as I convince myself love is a delusion, I am simultaneously becoming frantic, almost hysterical, searching every face for some sign of tolerability, swiping faster and faster.This isn’t who I want to be.
I roll off the bed and tug on my boots, the sexy ones my mom got me for Christmas last year, soft black leather up to the knee and a painful-looking heel.
“Don’t do this, Viv,” Annie says.