You, Again

by Kate Goldbeck

“I have a lot of prep to do, so you’ll have to tie yourself up with the extension cord.”

And there’s something annoyingly hot about men with towels on their shoulders and rolled up sleeves.

“It’s nothing but obligation and weak mimosas.”

For most of his life, there’s been no one he couldn’t talk over.

But watching other people express affection, he feels the lack of it.

How many times do I have to tell you? Only good girls get my cock.” He lowers his voice. “Or do you want me to fuck you like you’re a bad girl?”

sometimes I find it comforting? The tangible artifacts of happiness.

“That’s mine: Too Sad to Fuck Someone: A Portrait of Josh Kestenberg as a Young Man.”

When a personal disaster happens, you turn it into a bit. Use it as inspiration for a sketch or a relatable one-liner that you hope will go viral on Twitter.

“I refuse to consume meatballs from a discount furniture chain.”

“Throw them out immediately. If you let your ex’s stuff linger in your home, it will slowly poison you, like the One Ring.”

Her mouth curves into an evil grin. “You should get another woman to put the panties on and take a picture of her and send that photo to Sophie.” Josh stares at her, impressed and a little intimidated. “Fuck, I’m glad I’ll never have to break up with you.”

“Josh. Josh, I feel God in this Duane Reade tonight. You total”—she’s yelling now—“Fucking. Perv.”

It’s becoming a routine: How to be pathetically alone, together.

The idea of it makes her heart constrict—thinking of Josh as another person who’ll inevitably leave her behind.

If Josh can date someone, Ari can date two someones.

I’m being nonconned into attending trivia

Ari: Did you know Rembrandt’s first name was Rembrandt?? Josh: Everybody knows that. Ari: Rembrandt Rembrandt??

“Why is everyone always trying to get me to read this book? Maybe I don’t want to ‘dare greatly.’ Maybe I just want to dare the regular amount and wallow.”

Slowly, he slides his bowl of matzo ball soup across the table in front of her.

“You’re the only person I’m nice to. If you weren’t around, I’d have no redeeming qualities.”

“You don’t want to witness this. I’m going to cry until I’m dehydrated, smoke a bowl, and fall asleep with my hand inside a bag of Takis. It’s my process, I’ve been refining it over many years.”

“Seriously, no more museums for you.” “Am I getting the hairbrush again, Dust Daddy?”

Ari grabs his hand, takes a tiny test step, and slips again. “Shit.” She looks up. “I’ll have to live here.”

She’s so fucking frustrating in the way she forces him to be exactly what she needs while disregarding what he wants, or how he feels about any of it.

An adult wearing mittens. This is who he’s losing his goddamn mind over?

Hey, I think I’ve always kind of wanted to ride your face, but I’m currently suffering from acute emotional distress and it’s so much easier if I only sit on faces I don’t have memorized.

Why is he promising a later? This is only ever going to be a now.

There’s this idea of her that exists in his mind: where she’s some kind of enigma, where the passcodes are always off by one number, where she almost opens up, but not quite.

“Look at us.” He moves his hand to her head, tilting it down. “Don’t close your eyes. Look.”

He strokes her hair with his left hand. No. He’d stay awake for days for this.

Every relationship starts this way. And most of them end in tears and half-empty bookshelves.

“Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself?” His mouth is right next to her ear.

“You’re so fucking weird,” she says. “You’re so fucking wet.”

“Tell me if it’s too much.” “I’ve taken a whole fist, you know.” “Not mine.” He spanks the fleshy part of her ass. “Brat.”

“Well, you didn’t actually go down on me.” “Because you never put on the clown costume like I told you to.”

“What are you making?” “Lasagne in bianco,” he replies, like this is a normal thing. “Is it possible that you own a baking dish?” She crouches down to the lower right cabinet and holds up a rectangular Pyrex dish. “I use it for pot brownies.”

“I know what I want.” He has a heady, dizzying feeling like this is it. The last shot. “I want everything and I’ll give you everything.”

She can keep the pasta machine. Let it collect dust in storage. He leaves their dinner in the oven to burn.

I’m not, in fact, spending all my time feeling a combination of bitter and heartbroken and angry and sorry for myself. I’m also sending emails.

Strange how this innocuous piece of cooking equipment has come to symbolize his misguided belief that he mattered to Ari.

How he feels Ari’s absence every single day. How she’s taken root in some deep, inaccessible place that can’t be edited or overwritten—just managed. Like a chronic illness.

“No one should marry the person who makes them happy. Marry the person you want by your side at your lowest p-point. Marry the person you…you never get sick of. Who you always want more from. Who makes you proud to be theirs.”

It turns out that it’s possible to run really fast (okay, reasonably fast), while inhaling a soft pretzel and clutching a slippery bottle of blue Powerade.

It’s a familiar feeling—like his whole life has been a party where everyone else is enjoying themselves while he sulks in the corner.

Maybe there’s no such thing as soulmates, but I think you’re my person. And I’m yours. And I don’t want to wait for it anymore. I want to wake up with you tomorrow.

I will buy you an entire set of monogrammed cereal bowls, he promises silently.

Maybe being in love is knowing that you’d live it all over again—every part, suffering included—to get right back to the place where you’re standing.

Voices and sentence fragments that insist that she’s joking or she could change her mind or who the fuck proposes marriage while the other person is holding an “Octopussy”?

I want you to wake up every morning knowing that you’d have to go to great expense in order to get rid of me.”