By Kiley Reid
You take me to a restaurant that looks like the part where the guy admits he’s wrong in that last scene from everything.
You smell like you went to one of those colleges that has a song. The kind where you raise a body part and shout fight or die.
You look like a Ken doll. And also like you could murder me and not get caught.
I can’t believe you’re here for Christmas.
You make friends with babies through windows at gas stations and you spell theater with an re at the end.
You know when daylight savings is. And this one time, you went to Mexico.
You ask me what the worst date I’ve ever been on was and I say, “Not this one,” before I go to the bathroom to hold my face in my hands. (Pee drips down my leg when I stand, behind my right knee.)
I’m sorry my mom is so fat.
You think you’re special because one night you had a bad dream, and on another night, one of your grand-people died. I say, “Yes, you’re right,” because all at once I argue everything but you. My dad stands to smoke a cigarette in the laundry room.
Let’s just move somewhere already! I just want to live with you in one of those towns where some seventeen-year-old believes that if she could just win this year’s All American Grilled Cheese Glitz Pageant! Because then!
Invite me to that wedding your ex-girlfriend will be at.
Text me that you’re putting me down as your emergency contact.
Tell me how to unchoose you.
Tell your mom I said hi.
Kiley Reid lives and writes in New York City. She's ok but just needs to sit down for a minute.