The Girl, Part 1

She said we were too much to be an affair, and too little to be girlfriends, so she called me her whatever. I was in love with her. It went on like that for ages. She’d come to town for Violent Femmes, and we’d do our whatever thing. In Ireland, we had sex in a hostel shower. In a cow pasture. In a ruined castle. Almost always segregated in the dark. I helped her move, and drove the truck over two mountain passes. She was the relationship that never really happened. The one that slid in between other things.

She ended up with a lunatic, and I ended up married, and the whatever ended. I dreamed of girls then. Cities of girls. Girls building houses, and digging ditches, and giving speeches. Girls in summer dresses. Girls in Levis. Girls with tool boxes.

I was convinced in the end I’d be with her. Years later. I’m not sure when I realized that it wasn’t going to happen. That sometimes you just aren’t supposed to. Sometimes momentary is all you get.

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