I just wanted a drink and some food with a familiar face. Instead I found you. You yelled at me across the bar. My ears pricked up with intrigue. Rude, questionable facial hair, beer gut, odd laugh, but none of that mattered because you were Australian. You asked if you could have one of my wings and I obliged. You grabbed one and went back to your seat across the bar. I knew what you were doing. My penchant for strange behaviour worked in your favour. But you couldn’t have known I like people left of center so I imagine you use this on all the girls. Huh.

I sat at your bar just wanting to be flirted with. My frugalness sent me towards the door after about an hour but then you said you’d be off work soon. You really weren’t my type. Ah, fuck it. We went to a bar across the street and I listened to your boring stories. As I listened, I wondered if I’d still care what you had to say if my mom wasn’t from Australia. Something to discuss in therapy. The bar closed and we walked outside to say our goodbyes. You kissed me. My body yearned to be naked next to you.

I reminisced about that kiss and my body ached for more. My coworker told me she got laid off a photo she sent depicting a man fucking a woman from behind while he firmly grips her neck. She included the caption yes, no, maybe? She sent me the photo even though I don’t care for being choked and I sent it to you. You took the bait. Would it bother you to know it was a recycled move? Whatever. I know I’m not the first woman whose wing you ate. We fucked. It’s some of the best sex I’ve ever had. God, I love Australia.

I just wanted to drink with some coworkers after work. I didn’t know they’d choose your bar three days in a row. But out of curiosity, can I see you again? You’re busy? Oh, closing every night this week. Your friend tells me that you’re not the dating type. My friends tell me you have slept with many other women since you arrived from down under. Wait, when did I become the pity case? You’re rude to strangers. You have straggly fuckin’ facial hair. Your beer gut is getting out of hand even in the short time I have known you. And when you laugh it sounds like a hyena is dying. I JUST WANTED A DRINK AND SOME FOOD WITH A FAMILIAR FACE! Instead I found a bar I can no longer go to.

I roll over in the middle of the night awoken by a buzz from my phone. The notification shows his name with the words I miss you. I flip my phone over and go back to sleep. In the morning I wake to find the message was not a dream. I did in fact receive those three words in a message at 4:24am from an ex boyfriend. Ugh.

I roll over in the middle of the night and grab my phone because I can’t sleep. I read back through my message history with him and wonder where it all went wrong? I miss him. Does he know? Maybe he misses me too? We were never technically together but those three dates we had were enough to hook me. Looking out the window, I see the falling snow, icy to the touch, which warms my broken heart. Perhaps it has the same effect on him. I text him, I miss you. Finally I fall asleep. In the morning I wake to find no response. And nothing the next day. Or the day after that. The snow is gone and I envy it for being able to disappear so easily. Ugh.

I roll over in the middle of the night and creep her Instagram page. Stuck in a purgatory between fighting and/or too busy, it’s been a few months since we last spoke and I wonder how she is doing. The only deduction I can draw from her page is that she attends parties for a living and a photographer follows her around everywhere, even to the Laundromat. I comment on one of her photos hoping that such a public display won’t be rejected. “Cool pic! I miss you!” In the morning I wake to find she has liked my comment but said nothing back. Progress? Ugh.

I roll over and stare at her now frail body. I think about how when I was younger, she always seemed so strong. I rack my brain trying to remember the last time she said I miss you and decide it must have been in my early twenties. I look around the room and take in the heaps of things she has collected over the years. I cringe at thought that when she dies, I’m going to be the one who has to sort through this mess. Oh, how I’ll miss you.