Crushing

by Genevieve Novak

‘Sometimes I think it’s me, that I’m the problem, because no one pursues me that hard, or I spiral over rejection texts from people I’m not even into. But then I think, when was the last time I really liked someone? When was the last time I met someone who was interesting, or funny, or a good kisser? I’m interesting and funny and a great kisser. Why should I get down on myself when it’s everyone else who needs to step up their game to be good enough for me?’

Me me me me ME!!

Wondrous, really, what a white wine buzz and thirty-some hours of enforced celibacy could do for your outlook.

He didn’t have any social media (hot),

‘I don’t wish them ill or anything,’ I said. It was a lie. I had elaborate vengeance fantasies about them all, tailored to their exact idea of torture.

‘It’s just bullshit. How many times have you fallen in love this year?’ ‘Just this once.’ ‘What about me?’ she asked, and this time her voice came out kind. ‘What about yourself?’ ‘That’s not the same.’ ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘Why is romantic love the benchmark? Why do you think it’s more meaningful than any other?’

How nice it had been to want something without ever having to risk getting it. How lovely it had been to fall in love a thousand times and live a thousand lives inside my own head, excited and enthralled and safe, always, from the real pain of real life. That was what I missed: delirious, irrational hope.