He used to think about fucking me, but he doesn’t think about me anymore. Which is good, because now he has his girlfriend, and their dog, and that Uhaul filled with all their worldly possessions and a full tank of gas as they jet across the country to some mundane destination. I fantasize nightly about the conversation that lead them to this quite Instragam-able moment, as they sit there, grinning and giddy with that stupid fucking dog in their lap, waving from the cab of the Uhaul at someone who is holding a smart phone. What did they say to eachother, that now they’re absconding my beloved city for a bucolic life in some other location? Was she happy when they decided to go together? Or did she yank him from his perch out here in Oakland, and he used to think about fucking me, but now I think about him and why is he leaving Oakland? When he could stay here and see me at bars, and I could flirt with him even though I know he has a girlfriend. We could pretend for a night behind the whiskey haze of too many drinks, and then he could go home, and I would still not fuck him. And he could dream of me while he held her, but no. Not anymore. Will his fantasies of me pursue him to the other side of the country? Those once wistful text messages and the promise of hope in every click of the keys when we chatted on Facebook. He thought it was going to happen, didn’t he? I could tell he did.
But then he found her, and now they’ve packed their bags and hitched their wagon to a star that is dead set for the center of Ohio, USA. Which is strange, because I didn’t know that stars went to Ohio, USA, although maybe they just go there to die. And while he’s driving down some highway away from everything that he didn’t have here with me in Oakland, with the radio playing, and his girlfriend with her beer – will he never think of me again? Or will I be the fool, and when will someone ask me to uproot my life to settle down in the bucolic pastures of Boondocks, America, call it true love and then fail to be happy ever again?