WHY DID YOU EAT MY SIRLOIN?

EMERY DAY

It was my sirloin steak, and, yet you ate it, all of it, not even just a nibble, or a bite, not even a big bite. All of it. Some part of me understands. You just got home from a long day at work, at the whatever-it-is-you-do factory, doing whatever-the-fuck-it-is-you-do for eight straight hours. But, also, this is the third time you’ve violated my boundaries this week.

The first time I can remember is when you came home at eight PM instead of the scheduled six, for the second night in a row. I understand, things happen, but also, my feelings deserve consideration, and if you’re going to come home at eight instead of six, who’s to say you won’t show up at ten the next day, then twelve o’clock, then two, and before I realize it, you’re staying at work twenty-four hours a day. And that doesn’t leave much time for Star Trek marathons, now does it? Do you not want to see me?

I get that the decisions are out of your hands. But are they really? If how late you work is out of your hands, so then is where you work, and so then is what you buy, and where you can afford to live, and at that point we fall into an endless pit of absurdity. So, perhaps try to negotiate with Mr. Buford instead of allowing this problematic part of our relationship to persist, if you think that you have any choice in anything. The alternative would be a rather radical position, now, wouldn’t it? That we’re just floating around in a sea of cosmic dust, dancing, running, shouting, sexing until we die. Sounds absurd when it’s phrased that way, huh?

If we are just infinitesimally small biological robots marching along to the orders of our clockwork universe, then why be together at all? And why would anything matter, from world leaders to genocides, let alone the romantic relationship between two tiny, tiny mortals. I don’t want to lose sight of you. But we’re both so small and everything else is so big. There’s so much nothing out there, I don’t want whatever we have to become part of it. Maybe it already is, I don’t know. It makes me sad.

Either way, my second grievance is more important. When we were in Fort Lauderdale, resting on the breezy beachside, I tried to reach out to you. Not reach out reach out, just tell you “I see you.” And I tried to do that by reaching for your hand when you had just got done surfing the Florida waves, hoping to hold you, albeit in this minor way, but you didn’t notice. I can’t remember why, maybe you were reading a book, or scrolling on your phone, or maybe even talking to a passerby. But it took a lot of courage for me to reach out to you, after everything that’s happened recently.

Your life sucks. I know that. You work long hours, have your own mental shit, and with everything going on with your parents, I feel bad even bringing this up. But you tell me that I don’t know you, that I don’t consider your feelings. When I saw you on the beach having fun with your friends while I pretended to read Little Women, it sank in. You’re right. I don’t know you. I have no idea who your friends are, your work, or your parents’ names. Fuck, I don’t even know your favorite color.

After volleyball with Colleen and Jeff, I realized that they like each other. Like, if they met all over again, they would fall in love over again. And I don’t know if that’s true for us. I want it to be. What is your favorite color? What are your parents’ names?

I enjoyed the beach, the hotel, the restaurants, but I kept getting the nagging feeling of ‘What am I doing?’. Why am I here, with you, instead of anywhere else?

Some of my favorite moments in Fort Lauderdale were at the Boathouse. You were forced to talk to me. I couldn’t pretend to be busy. You told me about Brian at your work, how he was promoted before you, even though you do a better and faster job than him. And I felt angry. Angry that you, this person I barely know, was cheated out of a better job in lieu of this other guy who I don’t know at all. Why would I care?

Maybe it’s just that we’ve spent so much time together that I’m bonded to you in the same way as a cat bonded to a human. Maybe it is just you are a warm body that I know. But I don’t want to think that that’s all it is. When I hear you talk about your work, the dog, or your projects you just sound so passionate, like you know what you’re doing and where you’re going. Like you’ve charted the course, and now it’s just a matter of riding it out. I think I envy that about you.

In the Boathouse, you told me about your most recent project; a program that helps you run your Dungeons and Dragons game smoother. I told you it was childish. You got quiet. I think I wanted you to be the one who made me angry. I wanted to provoke you to react, to lash out at me, to comment about how my interests are actually the childish and dumb ones. But you didn’t. You never do. Of course you don’t, you’re not a monster.

I want to join your stupid Dungeons and Dragons game. I want to play as an elf wizard girl who shoots fireballs out of a wand or whatever you do in that game. You seem so passionate when you talk about it. That made me jealous. But I know that’s stupid.

Even still, there are things I need from you too. This isn’t just a letter documenting my numerous fuckups. You’re always going and going and going and you never stop and I feel like no matter what I do there’s nothing that will keep you in place or stop your wandering and I always get the sinking feeling that if something (or someone) new and shiny and novel came by that you would switch up in a heartbeat even though I know logically you wouldn’t and that it’s just my manic neuroticism but I need you to make me feel anchored. Like you’re here to stay.

That leads me to my third complaint. You’ve been self-deprecating more and more lately. It feels like you’re spiraling out because of this thing with your parents, and I don’t know how to help. It feels like we’re so far apart nowadays that I have no clue how to navigate your emotional storm. Ever since we got back from vacation, you’ve been on edge. And I know you don’t want to tell me because you feel like I won’t care or won’t know how to respond, and you’re right to feel that way. But it would help if it felt like you trusted me.

There’s not been a moment when we’ve been together where it’s felt like you believed in me. I mean, you trust me with the house key, bank details, and the dog’s welfare, so you must have some faith, but I always feel like I’m talking to a hypothetical person you’ve constructed to please me. So that I won’t complain about it. You’re walking on eggshells. I know that. I used to not care, because it was just more convenient for me. But I’m coming to realize that it’s not good for either of us.

The truth is, I can’t keep being the person I have been and expecting things to magically get better. There is no relationship wizard coming to cast a spell and cure us of our problems. Maybe we are just tiny biological Roombas bumping against the universe’s furniture, but maybe that doesn’t matter. I don’t know. Maybe not everything has to be so deep. Maybe I can just be me, and you can just be you, and I can think about the universe until I’m blue in the face and then sit down on the couch and watch Star Trek: Voyager for the fourth time with you.

Listen up. I have demands. First, you must tell me your favorite color, your parents’ names, your D&D character, everything. I will write it down, because otherwise we both know I will forget. Secondly, tell me how you’re feeling. Or at least try. It can be a stupid fucking letter like this one for all I care. I just want to know. And, also, try to care about whatever book I’m reading at a given time. I know it doesn’t have lasers or spells or goblins or whatever, but I care about it.

I just want to know you, man.

P.S. For the love of God. Stop eating my steaks. They’re expensive. At least ask.