P.S. I Hate You

He’s not my boyfriend.

And I’d hardly call us good, close friends.

But he’s special.

Our week was special.

I finish my coffee and hit the shower, reluctantly washing him off of me. My body is filled with aches and I trace the parts of me his mouth and tongue caressed mere hours before. By the time I’m finished, the delicious soreness between my thighs is all that remains, a fleeting memento of our final night together.

An hour later, I trek across my grandmother’s back yard and head into her kitchen where she and her best friend, Constance, are eating the breakfast Gram’s chef prepared.

“Morning, sunshine,” Grandma says, pointing her spoon at me.

My stomach rumbles when I spot the layout of exotic fruits and Greek yogurts and artisan bagels, and I help myself to a plate before joining the two of them.

“Morning,” I say. Each minute that passes is a reminder that I’m firmly planted back in reality whether or not I want to be.

As I sit here, spooning cinnamon granola into a dish of vanilla Greek-style yogurt, somewhere Isaiah’s boarding a bus to get to a plane that’s going to take him to a dangerous place for the better part of a year.

“Constance and I have lunch reservations at Mr. Chow,” Grandma says. “One o’clock today. Would you like to join us? Her grandson, Myles, is going to be there.”

The two of them exchange looks and ward off sheepish grins.

They’ve been trying to hook me up with Myles for years, and while I admit he’s cute, he just isn’t my type. He’s one of those film-school types who takes everything entirely too seriously. People like that just can’t sit back and enjoy things. They have to pick them apart until there’s nothing left but a few threads and crumbs, and that’s just not my thing.

“He’s been asking about you,” Constance says. “I’m not supposed to tell you that though.”

She giggles, lifting her finger to her lips.

“Oh, Maritza, you should come!” Grandma says, an oversized smile taking up half of her face. As much as I’d love to keep her happiness afloat, I can’t.

And for several reasons.

The biggest of which is the fact that I’m scheduled to work today.

“Have to be at work in an hour,” I say, taking a spoonful of yogurt. “Thanks for the invite though.”

“It’s fine, sweetheart,” Constance says. “Poor planning on our part. We shouldn’t have sprung it on you last minute. I’ll talk to Myles today and see what his schedule’s like these next few weeks. Maybe the two of you could have another little date?”

Ugh.

Please don’t.

I smile out of politeness. Constance is sweet as pie and cute as a button and she means well, but the first time I got roped into going on a date with Myles, I vowed to myself it would be the last time.

We don’t speak the same language, and by that, I mean he uses words like “cinematic universe” and “framing” and “bridge shot” and “aspect ratio” and “revisionistic” and the only language I speak is plain English.

And don’t even get me started on the fact that he made me see some artistic French movie with subtitles. Longest night of my life.

And then he tried to kiss me after all of that.

I turned and gave him my cheek like a proper girl would do in one of those black and white movies Gram is always watching. He smiled, pushing his thick-framed glasses up his nose, slightly embarrassed. And then he made a comment about how this felt like an awkward scene in some Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy.

The fact that he’s still interested in me years later blows my mind and proves how out of touch he is with reality. And why wouldn’t he be? He lives and breathes movies and things that simply aren’t real.

I prefer real.

Real is flawed men with complicated personalities who do brave things like fight wars.

War is real.

The newest Darren Aronofsky film? Not real.

Afghanistan? Real as fuck.

Finishing breakfast, I kiss Gram goodbye for now and give Constance a wave before heading back to the guesthouse to grab my keys and apron and hit the road before I get stuck in traffic.

Forty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot and hang my permit from my rear-view mirror. Heading inside, I punch in and tie my apron around my hips. The scent of cinnamon pancakes and fried bacon fills my lungs and the sound of dishes clinking and cooks shouting and patrons conversing all blurs into the background.

Everything is gray.

And I feel his absence already.

I feel it in my bones, in the hollow of my chest. The twist of my stomach, the ache in the deepest part of me. The void of his touch on my skin, the nonexistent comfort of his low whispers in my ear.

I miss him.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.