A notification. The red outline of two friends. Someone found me.
It’s not a bot. Not an old buddy from high school. It’s you.
The only non-Classics major female that signed up for Greek Dramatic Myths.
The only one who wore makeup for the 8:30am class.
The one who agreed to skip the Thursday seminar to smoke.
We could hit the gym together, walk the trails, or use our fake IDs at wineries.
The walks back in the frigid air allowed us to stroll with arms wrapped + talk.
I wanted to make lots of money. You rolled your eyes. You wanted to be an archaeologist.
The fog of our breath was continuous, as we couldn’t shut up for the mile.
We only stopped talking once naked in your apartment.
Those sessions were the best, not solely for the energetic sex but the moments in between.
Naked, glistening with sweat, high or not, you’d explain the dream.
Underwater archaeology was going to be easier with tech. Your kids would speak 3 languages.
The world was full of fits and starts, not never ending positive achievement.
Forget Atlantis or gold, I knew you’d find fulfillment.
I looked at your profile pic quickly and thought of that night. The formal.
I showed up and watched you get ready dancing to Destiny’s Child in short shorts + a tank top.
Strapless teal dress and silver heels for the formal. Hair up, perfect skin + lovely face exposed.
Your winter coat went farther down than your dress.
My friends’ anorexic dates were upset at a natural.
That night we could make an entrance, do the rounds and play the part.
Future governor and first lady. Training for 21st century fundraisers.
The teal dress stood out. In between seniors giving me ‘atta-boys’ I could see you.
Outsiders to the already made crowd, but we could fit in, we could make it.
During the SUV ride to the hotel, we mocked the anorexics that pushed food around their plates.
I checked LinkedIn, looked closer at that profile pic and recalled the other night. The goodbye.
Your drugs had changed, and you had lost weight. A Jersey girl was giving me the green light.
You toyed with transferring to escape the cliques. I planned on going to Europe.
Your grades slipped. 2am visits to my room now involved needing to calm down from the uppers.
Best to split ways. Looking at your sunken, red eyes, I was glad you said it first.
The hug and silent look we gave each other in front of our parents at graduation set our paths.
LinkedIn says you are a real estate lawyer. The Mediterranean is a vacation destination now.
Same last name. The Facebook profile pic is you alone with a wine glass in hand. At a fundraiser?
New York, New York so you did fit in. You did make it. Alone.
No message needed. I know the road you took. They write TIME and Salon thinkpieces about it now.
I was meant to be the greedy businessman. You were the idealist.
Your lil hometown upstate could use a cowboy lawyer, but it doesn’t pay!
Your kids, if they exist, walk on four paws.
I spent a moment pinpointing when you killed the old dream, the energetic goals.
I clicked Ignore Request.
A heartfelt sentiment. The death of dreams writ small and great. The story of modernity.
Poignant.
Epically truthful in a world where some give more substance to a numbers count on friends as a redemption for a life not really lived.
I simply cannot sympathise – the doom described befits perfectly such a reprobate. She had been playing at manhood all along, and the conclusion is no surprise. Clicking “Ignore” is a too-late, depersonalised proxy for the natural shunning of the malformed woman, due far sooner than it came.