To Make Monsters Out of Girls

by Amanda Lovelace

just like in the movies, we quite literally bump into each other at the bookstore one afternoon. i’m not sure what kind of books you like to read anymore—probably something like stephen king—but all the ones tucked in your arms go tumbling to the ground & mix with my gillian flynn. i don’t even sense them falling. i’m too mystified by the sight of you to bend down & help you pick them back up. “why don’t we grab some coffee & catch up?” you ask. so we do. you tell me stories about your children & i try to smile politely at the correct times. you avoid mentioning your wife & i avoid mentioning my spouse, which is probably best for both of us. i try to tell you about my writing & you can’t hide the red draining from your cheeks, so you find a way to change the subject. no, you don’t want to hear about all the hollywood monsters i turned you into to make people understand. there is no slow blast of fireworks. there are no heartstrings finally coming to relax underneath the table between us. there is no magical moment of lost love found. inside this moment, we are not allie & noah. no, in this moment i am allie & you are lon. or maybe you are noah & i’m martha. i can’t be certain. what there is, however, is a sort of silent understanding. in a different life, we could have been holding hands across this table, discussing ordinary things like grocery lists & who will pick which child up from what at which time, but in the life we currently occupy, we’re two almost-strangers str...