What It's Like in Words: A Novel

by Eliza Moss

A male protagonist can do anything he wants as many times as he wants, but a female protagonist has to justify why she is or isn’t a trope?

The difference a smile made to skin was paper being folded and unfolded.

The light behind his eyes clicked on: I had surprised him. Oh, well, that’s different, he said warmly, and the desire to please him bloomed like an addiction.

I put a pen to my lips the way that he had held one to his. Apparently only two percent of the population has green eyes. When would he text? Would he text? Did I even want him to text? His face confused me. It was like his teeth were too big for his mouth. And he didn’t even seem nice. And I couldn’t date a smoker. And what was that kiwi thing? Fuck. Why did I tell him my favorite show was Grey’s Anatomy? I

I read this thing that said butterflies are our body’s fight-or-flight. We think they mean love or attraction or whatever, but they actually mean danger. It’s your body warning you to run.

Ruth always made words sound like they should be printed on cushions.

because he never viewed it as a real relationship. And yet, if the police dusted, they would find his prints everywhere.

but I liked not having to decide what I wanted. To have someone make the decisions for me. I would tell him what I wanted over time,

There were challenging parts; he was blunt and occasionally rude, and he wielded humor both as a weapon and a shield. But I felt happy, in that fizzy way you feel as a child jumping in a lake or seeing snow for the first time.

Women trying to convince thrmselces that he really is god even though he treats them terribly. He is terrible and makes Enola question everything about herself in the midst of his critiques.

We hadn’t used words to define our relationship, but his directness was a comfort; he wasn’t the sort of person to be anywhere he didn’t want to be. If he didn’t want to be at the party, he would leave; if he didn’t want to be with me, he would leave me. But still, the words would be nice.

having him here dominated my thoughts. I was always on high alert, like I was afraid to concentrate on something that wasn’t him.

And look, I know it’s early days but I’m pretty confident I’ll still want you to be my girlfriend. If you still want me? Girlfriend.

I couldn’t let him think that mattered, so I hummed to tease, to lighten, to minimize that which I felt profoundly, and said: I’ll still want you to be my boyfriend.

We had been seeing less and less of each other lately.

You’re all ice queen by day and sparrow by night. I didn’t recognize myself, but I still felt seen.

I don’t know whose idea it was to go on holiday to Kenya. I don’t remember if I wanted it or if I just wanted to make him happy. I feel like he pushed me into it, but he said that I had gone on about how much I wanted to go and so he had no choice. And if he was right about that, then what else was I wrong about?

He said that the instructions made him feel like he was doing everything wrong. So I let him do what he wanted—or rather, I let him think that I wanted what he wanted.

He squeezed the soft flesh above my hip and said: You feeling beach ready?

At the end of the day, I’m concerned that this trip is going to hurt you. And that you’re not protecting yourself enough with this guy.

I hid the parts of myself that I didn’t like and sometimes I wondered how much of me was left visible after that.

She was a lovely girl, but in the end, she just needed help that I couldn’t give her. Steph always says I have crap taste in women, he added with a wry laugh. I didn’t like the way he said that, but who was I to judge?

No, no, I can’t. Why? Because I feel like I will burst into tears if you touch me. Just my stomach, I said, from the drive.

I said that I was afraid of ruining the holiday, because this was his first holiday with a girlfriend.

I told him that everything looked different, and it was discombobulating. I wasn’t sure why I had chosen that word. His face changed, and he laughed. He said that he was relieved that I hadn’t said something worse and that I would feel “bobulated” after some time in the sun. Just don’t focus on it. Leave for the beach in ten?

It’s not like he could leave if he didn’t like what he saw—we were here for the week—but, still, I didn’t want him to really see me.

My instincts told me to stay behind him. I would rather him tease me for being a bad swimmer than put him in a mood because he felt like he was one.

I had never felt sexy before, but I believed him because, at this point, I was what he told me.

I wanted everything. He wasn’t saying it in words, but he was saying it in something like them: he wanted that too.

He would like me in it. He would rub my hip bones, and I would feel delicate and lovable. I came outside, and he was by the pool having a smoke. He didn’t notice my dress.

Fine, I said, more upset about the memory of the sunset photo. This is my holiday too, Enola, he said, sharp. Shit. I moved to him and told him that I was sorry.

Honey, he said. You’ve lost weight.

I said that she was fine, because he didn’t want to know and I didn’t want to tell him.

Enola, why are you staring at me? Because I love you and because being with you is like carrying something fragile. You just look handsome, I said. Okay, well, stop it, it’s annoying.

I was genuinely happy for you to go without me. Yes, thank you. I don’t need permission. I asked him what was wrong. He said that there was nothing wrong but he was lying. I hated that he was angry, that I was making him angry. But I couldn’t stop. The more frustrated he grew, the more frustrating I became. The heat wasn’t helping.

He told me that I had been a nightmare all day. I didn’t realize that when you said you were allergic to mosquito bites that meant you turned into a fucking psycho! I told him not to be angry, and his face contorted. Don’t put this on me, Enola. You’re the one who’s having a fucking meltdown. I told you I’ve never been someone who tolerates this stuff.

The other night I was beautiful and special, and now I was a nightmare. Why was I ruining this? And why, when he left a room, did it still feel like I might never see him again?

I didn’t want this. I wanted him to hold me and tell me that everything was going to be okay, but he lowered himself between my thighs.

Stay in that if you want? Embarrassment burned my body red and every mortifying thing I had ever done rushed back to me, but I pretended it was fine because I needed it to be.

He asked me why we came if it was going to upset me. I said that I didn’t know that it was. He told me that he understood but that it was selfish of me to have made this his problem. I’m not your therapist, Enola. Do you understand that when I get back, I’m going to have to pick up shifts in my cousin’s bar? I’ve not done bar work since my twenties. I’ve been so stressed with writing and … This is why I don’t go away with partners. I’m really sorry, I said, unable to stop my voice from shaking. Oh, just stop that, Enola. It’s manipulative.

I didn’t want to leave, but everything I had done to try to fix things had made them worse. Okay, I said. I’ll see you back at the house?

I realized then the tightrope I was walking; it felt as if any moment that wasn’t fun for him could make him angry. And yet I couldn’t feel anything but disappointment that I had let him down.

He pulled me to him, and I was relieved to find that his eyes were twinkling. He didn’t say it, but he was sorry. I started to cry. Shit. I’m sorry for crying. I’m so sorry. But this time he was kind, and he wiped a tear from my cheek.

I didn’t think about my pleasure because it wasn’t my pleasure I was addicted to.

I asked him if everything was okay, but he said that he was going to get pissed off if I kept asking.

to write, you couldn’t curate pieces of yourself—you had to bleed, you had to show the ugly parts, the parts scarred and darkened by the sun.

I lift my Mario Kart T-shirt and, glimpsing myself in the wardrobe mirror, recall once overhearing a man on a bus describe a woman as “one of those fat skinny girls.”

She looked concerned. You’ve barely spoken about it, Laa. And you’re looking really skinny. I’m really not. You are. You’ve lost weight very quickly.

I said that he had been wonderful at first, but then things changed, or I had changed—I wasn’t sure which. I told her that when I told him that I was struggling, he got angry.

I don’t like how he treats you and how you treat yourself when you’re with him. You were just telling me how upset you are and now you’ve flipped because he’s texted you back?

All this! I’ve been in a relationship like this before and I won’t do it again. Like magic, my anger and frustration vanished, and all that was left was incapacitating fear. Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. I pinged my elastic band under the table, once but hard.