the balad of all i know

I

The phone would ring.

“Hello,” I’d say.

“You said you were gonna call me.”

It was always Heidi,

a girl I’d met at an

adult children of alcoholics/dysfunctional

families support group.

She always wore black because

she thought black was sexy.

But the way she wore black

made it seem like she was mourning.

“You got company?” she’d say.

“No,” I’d say, and whoever was in my bed

would look at me funny.

“I’ve had a change of heart,” Heidi would say. “I want you to move in with me...”

“Oh, really?”

“You’re the only one who gets me.”

I’d usually go silent on purpose at that point.

“Oh so, you don’t love me anymore?” she’d say.

“I didn’t say that,” I’d say.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re in bed with some chick right now

who’s trying to figure you out.”

I’d just close my eyes,

take a deep breath, and pray for a simpler life.

“It’s too bad,” she’d say.

“We could have had a little

somethin’-somethin’ together,”

and she’d hang up, and I wouldn’t hear from her

again for at least two or three days.

I’d climb back into bed, and whoever

was lying there would say,

“Who was that?”

and I’d shake my head, sigh, and say, “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s another woman.”

“No one like you,”

which never seemed to satisfy them.

Only made them more competitive and bitchy.

“She ain’t got nothin’ on me,” they’d say,

and I’d agree with them and close my eyes

and fall asleep with their arms around me.

II

I’d wake up, and it would always

be raining, and my sunglasses could never

keep the glare of her honesty from blinding me.

She’d say, “So now, what’s your plan?”

I’d hem and haw and do what slackers usually do,

crack a Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoke a bowl.

Then I’d say something like, “Well, the thing of it is…” and nothing more.

I had no plan.

Never did.

Most I ever had was a fragment of a plan,

a fragmented fragment of a plan.

I’d lived my whole life like that.

Always fucked up with women

during the most crucial point in our

intercourse.

Always dropped the ball with them.

Never knew how to answer them,

always felt like I was on a job interview,

whether we were eating dinner or in

post-coital cool-down,

they were always trying to

get inside my ambition,

wanting to know if I had

anything to offer them,

the world,

their family.

We’d be lying there,

sweaty,

out of breath,

smelling of semen and vaginal juices,

staring at the missing tiles in the ceiling.

They’d be asking me questions, boy.

“Want children?”

“Dunno.”

“Wanna get married?”

“Dunno.”

“Wanna better job?”

“Dunno.”

Then there’d be like 3 minutes of silence.

They’d be thinking,

This guy seems like one of those

conflicted guys who never seem to be able

to form attachments with women.

I’d be thinking,

Jesus Christ, now what?

Reviews

[Lost]

A short but powerful story. Showing repetition and a search for comfort in a useless loop. Thank you for the read.