Expiration Dates

by Rebecca Serle

If you never stop long enough to sink into something, then it can’t destroy you. It’s easier to climb out of a pool than a well, is the thing.

I do miss the thing I don’t have. It’s strange to feel that, to want something that you’ve never even known before. But that’s love, isn’t it? The belief in something you cannot see or touch or even explain. Like the heart itself, we just know it’s there.

Being single is like playing the lottery. Most of the time all you’re left with from that trip to the convenience store is a bag of chips and a six-pack. But then there’s always the chance. There’s always the chance, however slim, that with one piece of paper you could win it all.

“I don’t think the opposite of casual is serious, actually.” “What is it, then?” Jake looks at me. His hazel eyes appear almost gold underneath the light of the heat lamp—tiny specks of sunlight. “Depth,” he says. “The opposite of casual is deep.”

But lying underneath Jake I wonder if sex might express something else—some level of tenderness. If we might be able to judge not the strength of a person’s feelings but the measure of their care.

“The problem with love is that it’s not enough,” she says. And then she looks up at me. Her eyes are still soft. “But it’s also nearly impossible to let go of once you’ve found it.”

“Because,” he says. His voice falters. “I wanted you to know what it felt like.” “To what?” Hugo shakes his head. “To not have a limit.”

It’s not bad, I think, as I watch my father cry now. It hurts and it’s painful, but it’s not bad. Pain and bad are not the same thing.

I thought if I had all the answers, if I was always one step ahead, if I knew my hand, then I’d never lose. But being surprised by life isn’t losing, it’s living. It’s messy and uncomfortable and complicated and beautiful. It’s life, all of it. The only way to get it wrong is to refuse to play.