I thought he’d grab me and kiss me, that he’d have dragged me behind his building to feel me up and kiss me more in secret, that his hands would run over my body and we would be close how we haven’t been in a year. I think about that day all the time. The last time we were together in Dartmouth. His breath on my neck, his hipbones pressing into me so hard I bruised a bit the morning after, us against the tree where we should have been this month again. I’d forgive him for not being there then if he’d just fucking say anything now — anything at all. But he’s not.
