You, Again

by Kate Goldbeck

On the street, it’s like extending your hand every thirty seconds and getting one of those extra-painful envelope paper cuts in return.

As he passes her, he smells cheap weed that reminds him of his whiny vegan classmates in his anthropology seminars at Stanford.

Lol

“Does six weeks of dating mean a relationship? I hooked up with this guy, Nico, for three semesters and he was not my boyfriend. His name is still in my phone with three eggplant emojis, though.”

If making someone laugh is the best feeling in the world, making someone laugh while they’re touching your thigh is like…the best feeling in the world plus a tiny hit of ecstasy.

Anyway, I don’t participate in the romance industrial complex.” She scrubs the dish with enough vigor to leave scratches. “It’s a distraction that keeps women dependent on men for validation.”

“Hallmark didn’t invent soulmates,” he says. “They just made it more marketable.”

“Your soulmate gives you the greatest possible sense of belonging,” he says with genuine conviction. “They heal your existential wound. It’s the basis of modern love.”

“You’ll start looking for the person who won’t bore you. Who makes sacrifices for you even when you don’t deserve it. Who you want to hold all night until your arm falls asleep. Who’s required by law to bring you matzo ball soup when you get a cold.

“You’re completely delusional.”

At this point, his therapist will inevitably advise him to “anchor.” The idea is to focus on your physical surroundings: things you can touch, hear, smell.

My therapist has also said this

ARI STANDS OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT, juggling her phone, a vape pen, and an enormous street-meat skewer with two hands.

Same

There’s a beat of silence. “Okay, then we’ll just share your girlfriend!” Every muscle in his body contracts. “What?” “Kidding,” she shouts. Then, faintly, almost out of earshot, “Unless…”

Lmfaooo

He follows her sight line to a woman in a plaid peacoat standing under a display labeled Realistic Dildos in a tasteful typeface.

Her hair is longer than last time, brown again, falling softly around her shoulders under a slouchy winter hat. She’s coziness personified,

She points at her chest with a coral-colored glass tentacle dildo. “Ari.”

Bye

“Ironic? No. Maybe it’s Alanis-ironic.

“Do I not seem fine?” “You’ve literally never seemed ‘fine.’

I was supposed to have a Michelin star by now.” “Maybe to some people,” Ari says, “a pastrami sandwich with just the right amount of mustard is more impactful than an award from a tire company.”

Lmaooooo

“Did she end up being the missing half of your black-and-white cookie with the arms and legs and the weird little penis?”

Her humor is pretty top tier lol

I’d get messages from women. One of them always referred to me as ‘the biggest boy’ and kept asking me to step on her neck.”

Same

“Don’t be nice to me. It makes me uncomfortable. And I don’t deserve it.”

“Weird how I didn’t foresee the demise of my own relationship. I guess we always think we’re the exception.”

“But you’re a softboi now?”

“I honestly don’t know if that’s a positive or a negative.” He makes a mental note to check the meaning of softboi on Urban Dictionary later.

“I think that’s the title of my memoir: Hoping the Vibrators Help, But Actually Kind of Starving: The Arianna Sloane Story.”

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

“All this moping over a woman who used to tell people she conjured you out of Manic Panic, nipple piercings, and secondhand bong vapor?”

Her right thumb scrolls through her contact list and circles the biggest boy twice before pressing down.

Bro BYE

Josh sighs. “Fine. The Princess Bride. A safe crowd-pleaser. A film everyone likes but is nobody’s favorite. The Foo Fighters of movies.” “I’ve never seen it.” “How is that possible?” he exclaims, his voice distorting over the connection. “It’s basic cultural literacy.” “I’m a youth,” she insists.

Same. But i have seen it now

Josh is standing over her with his hands on his hips like an annoyed-but-hot poli sci professor.

“Did you ask me to help you shop because you wanted someone to smile and nod and keep their mouth shut while you refuse to help yourself?” he asks. “Because I’m not going to do that.”

She opens the top compartment and looks down. Inside the drawer is a crude drawing of a penis. It’s a fun surprise. Like finding a quarter on the ground.

This bitch kills me

“Sophie has to be listening to this very specific podcast in order to…” Josh performs a noncommittal hand gesture. “You know…” “Have an orgasm?” Ari shouts. He shushes her, glancing around the store. “What was it?” She leans in like she’s going to whisper but speaks in the same loud drunk voice. “Like…an ASMR thing? Erotic short stories?” “That’s the worst part.” He waits for another shopper to move past them. “It was This Week in Tech.”

“Josh. Josh, I feel God in this Duane Reade tonight.

“You know, every night,” she says, “I lie here by myself and think, ‘Tomorrow is the day I’ll wake up and feel okay about this.’ There has to be a tipping point, right?

He scowls at her phone and makes another swipe. “ ‘No fatties’? Really? This asshole is holding a fish.”

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

who the fuck cares about friendship when you can feel like this instead of being numb?

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.

“Want me to keep going?” “If you stop, I’ll cut you.”

There’s a decision tree here, already branching out of control.

was it Lover era or 1989?

This t swift hype is transcending everything this year

“I’m not much of a good girl. More of a brat, really.”

Maybe the Tall Sweater Nightmare Man version of Josh was right: There really is no such thing as consequence-less sex.

“That’s exactly why this won’t work. You failed one time and you act like this pathetic victim of circumstance. Nothing’s stopping you from trying again except your own ego.

Sometimes melancholy music has the inverse emotional impact. It’s a strange form of masochism. Can you take this plaintive piano melody? You can? Then how about this Miles Davis solo, bitch?

Josh stands several feet behind the woman, perhaps deciding whether to click continue or cancel on the whole interaction.

She thinks about chonky cats calmly squeezing themselves into small boxes.

She’s managed to trigger a specific kind of loneliness that only happens when you alienate everyone who knows you—really knows you.

“I miss you. And I get that you don’t want to, like, talk, but I need you to know that…you kind of m-meant the world to me.”