The Night I Told You I loved You and You Told Me to Fuck Off
The second morning after the night I told you I loved you and you toldme to fuck off, I wanted to die. I didn't want to die because of younecessarily, but the sweet release of death would have relieved mefrom the cranium-searing hangover from which I suffered. I didactually have the hangover from you, because even though I told you Iloved you and you told me, not only to fuck off but that you no longerwanted to see me, you were there at that place where the drinks werefree. And because the drinks were free, I spent most of my time at thefree drink bar drowning my sorrows in the latest beaujoulais, avoidingeye contact with you but taking notice of where you were and with whomyou chose to speak. But at one point, I lost sight of you and then youwere there next to me, wondering were all the red wine went. Andthat's when you spoke to me again, inquiring about that lessening poolof free drinks and the three glasses of red wine that I had in frontof me. And I looked at you and the friendliness in your eyes, the wayyou used to look at me when I said something funny or did somethingsweet, showing you affection in minor moments, doling them out likesweets to a child, tiny snacks of my love that I knew I couldn't tellyou about because I suspected you might, I don't know, maybe tell meto fuck off. And you were giving me the happy friendly eyes becausethe morning after I told you I loved you and you told me to fuck offyou called me to apologize, saying sorry for telling me to fuck offbut that what I said freaked you out and that we probably shouldn'tspeak anymore. And what I heard was probably, so you standing theremade it fine. It was at that point that I said, "Here, take one ofmine," and handed you a cup of free wine even though I needed it toget over you. That wine probably made you feel better too, the way itmade me feel better and we talked, even though we probably shouldn'tand when the crowd moved on to another bar where the drinks were nolonger free, we went along together, as if nothing happened. At thatbar, even though I knew I shouldn't drink anymore, felt drunk on freewine and the idea that, maybe just maybe I wouldn't have to fuck off,you spent the entire time talking to another woman. And because youwere talking to her and she was clearly less attractive then I, andbecause she had to lean over and whisper in your ear every single timeshe had something to say, I stayed at the bar and ordered more drinks.And because I kept ordering drinks the bartender kept buying medrinks, and it got to the point that I was completely unable to hold aconversation with anyone so I stumbled out of the bar and into a caband home to my bed as that woman leaned in closer. In my bed I calledyour phone and I wanted to pour my heart out and beg you to love meback but all I could get out was "Fuck off." Several hours later, withthe sun pouring in my window and my alarm clock beeping, I crackedopen my eyes and for a split second felt the warmth of relief,accomplishment, the giddiness of a new day, prospect, hope. But then Iturned over, and the sheer pain of movement made me want to die.
About the author:
Kristin McGonigle is an unemployed writer/actor/dancer living in NYC and looking forward to hitting it big.