Y ou never wore underwear. To this day, you’re the only person I know who lived completely commando. It seems a silly thing to fall in love with, but the eccentricities get me every time.
You had deep set eyes, full lips, and a small nose. You wore blazers and vests and fitted button up shirts and tight jeans and jewelry. You wore more rings than me. You were in a band. You spoke French. You worked at a little charcuterie shop to pay your rent when you weren’t taking regular gigs. I thought you were trés cool, even though I knew little else about you.
My best friend and roommate, Liza, was engaged to Jack, your lead singer. Word had gotten around that I was interested in you, and I guess that made you interested in me too. One evening, the band was doing some band-bonding over crockpot venison stew and a B-movie, and Jack invited Liza over, suggesting that you bring me along.
We showed up just as the movie started. Everyone was scattered on three old couches. I avoided your eyes, wanting to pretend like I didn’t know this was all a grand meet-cute. Liza and I shared the loveseat, cuddling in that faux-lesbian way girls our age do in front of guys. Jack soon came over and snuggled between us. He leaned in to give Liza a deep kiss. “Get a room!” you yelled, clearly watching the whole thing.
Short fiction by Jared Yates Sexton, Amanda Miska, Paul Hamilton and Robert James Russell.