I was pleased to receive an unexpected call from you while I was doing my Saturday morning cleaning, in keeping with the tradition of black women from my end of the black spectrum. We laughed and encouraged each other and exchanged I can’t wait to see you’s. I was happy with the current state of things after we got off the phone.


It was deceptively beautiful outside that day. The sun was shining, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, yet it was still cold, ah the treachery. I had plans to meet my best friend Bria for lunch, so I invited another friend, Alice, along to join us. Alice is a damn good time. She’s still new to the city, and I always feel it my obligation to force people to have a great New York experience, so I invite her out all the time. After consuming an obscene amount of Cajun prepared seafood, Alice and I decided to go for margaritas at our favorite spot. I could feel the liquor taking over. Slurred speech didn’t compromise the sincerity of our conversation about life, love, career versus family, etc. When she asked me about you, I felt uneasy. Something in me didn’t feel settled and it wasn’t just the guacamole competing with the tequila in my stomach.


I made my way home and woke up the next day with the same uneasiness. I hadn’t heard from you, and I didn’t care. In fact, I felt like if you never called again I could be perfectly okay with that. Where did this sudden lack of interest come from? Maybe I was just having a moment, and it would pass. Suddenly Sunday turned to Monday as it does if you’re lucky, and then before I knew it Wednesday, and still no word from you. Certain that the sudden distaste I felt would subside, I reached out to you. You were just getting your phone back from Apple, which sounded like a lie, but I didn’t care enough to challenge you on it. I shared with you my concern over my freelance job not paying me on time, and how I wasn’t feeling an event I had to cover that night. I was nervous about paying my rent, and upset that I couldn’t indulge in the simple luxuries that a second stream of income allows for. Instead of offering support, you dismissively asked if I was on my period. The rage that sparked inside me I can’t even put into words. I stopped texting you.

A few days later you asked to see me, and I obliged in hopes that maybe the admiration I felt for you would come back upon seeing your face. With nervous excitement I answered the door. When I saw you I felt nothing. You smelled like weed and alcohol and I didn’t want you to get in my bed. Your imperfect smile was a little less endearing. Your lackadaisical walk lost its appeal, and your presence didn’t excite me in the least. We sat there in silence as I was trying to get the words right in my head to tell you how misogynistic you were for your comment. My argument fell on deaf ears because you refuse to be held accountable for anything. This reminded me of how unsympathetic you were to my cries the night you stood me up. This fueled the rage in me that I tried to keep at bay while the conversation turned into an argument. You patronized, talked over me, ignored my point, questioned my rhetoric, and failed at trying to simplify the situation. The uneasiness turned to distaste, and I wanted nothing more than for you to leave, and when I fell asleep in frustration you did. I breathed deeply with relief when I heard the door close behind you. I took off all of my clothes and stretched out across my bed in sheer bliss over your absence.

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Maybe the dislike is permanent. Maybe I’m really over it. But why would I be? Why would I suddenly not want you? You’ve been inconsistent, sure, but am I no longer interested in working through that? What changed? Still I had hopes that there was some sort of stupid ass hormonal glitch and that I would get over whatever caused me to not want you anymore, so I asked you to come over again after you expressed no interest in seeing the new Avengers movie. I disliked you even more when I saw you this time. You were trying to be playful, and I wasn’t interested. You followed me around my small apartment, terrorizing me like the younger sibling I never had and I couldn’t fight it any longer. I asked you to leave. You did so with a kind of righteous indignation that made me even more elated to have your energy removed from my space.

I haven’t missed you. I haven’t been tempted to call or text. I don’t look at my phone in hopes of seeing your number appear, because I deleted you from my contacts. We were two people who gave each other a try, and at some point, for some reason I lost full interest, and maybe you lost interest in me as well. I thought I wanted a relationship so badly. I was so eager for that consistent companionship, and then suddenly I didn’t want it. Or maybe I just didn’t want it from you.

As of last Friday, I am the only one of my three best friends who isn’t engaged. The part of that, which scares me is that I don’t care. I am so turned off by the experience of you that I am now questioning if I even want what I thought I wanted. So now I’m wondering what the hell I want. Maybe I haven’t met the right person. Maybe there isn’t a right person for me. Maybe I secretly want one of those unconventional ass relationships that weirds people out, and elicits statements like “to each his own, but I don’t get it.”   Maybe I still want the same ole thing, just with someone else. What I know for sure is that I am much happier without the anxiety and annoyance that you embodied. By no means do I think you’re a bad guy. I just know for a fact that you aren’t the guy for me. I’ve never felt this before. I’m usually the heartbroken girl over some guy who isn’t over his ex, or is afraid of commitment or some cliche shit like that. But this, this feels good. To be certain. To be sure. To be alone, but not lonely.