unhappy

Everything I write lately goes the same way: I’m unhappy, unhappy, unhappy. Speaking is hard for me. Close friends who hear me talk for hours about the things I love sometimes find this hard to believe, but then I stutter. I stumble getting a sentence out, working on it repetitively until I’m frustrated. I’ll spend a day or two mute. It’s why I like to write. Nothing is stopping my hands from sharing the words my mouth fails to deliver.

‘I think that’s beautiful,’ she says.

I don’t think she gets it – it’s not beautiful, it’s annoying. I feel my face scrunching up in irritation.

‘You know what I mean,’ she says. ‘It’s nice that you have something you love that much, that means so much to you. A passion.’

Maybe it’s more of a necessity but I say, ‘I guess.’

She sighs. Her hand runs down my thigh and stops; her fingers dig into my skin. ‘If you don’t feel like talking, maybe we can do something else.’

Alissa’s hair is brown and long and curly. At the base of her neck, it curls like little fern fronds, so soft like baby’s hair. It goes all the way down to her waist, and I like running my fingers through it, getting tangled. I’m no good at braiding but when she sits facing away from me, absorbed with something on her phone, I can’t help but make loose plaits. I want to touch her softly, gently. Learn to do her hair better, style it for the day. Alissa doesn’t touch me gently – she takes and takes and leaves behind marks that last days.

I’m unhappy.

‘Could you write something else?’ she asks, tracing the slope of my nose. Her fingers walk across my forehead, slip into my hair; she grips my fringe and tugs it sharply. She drags my head forward and I bump into her shoulder. I take a deep breath and I’m reminded I need to buy her the perfume she likes. It’s almost Christmas.

‘No more words,’ I say and it’s a lie. I have so many words. I don’t like you – I’m not sure I ever did. Her hands run over my arms, my thighs and travel down my back. I barely feel it.

‘Not even gonna write me a love poem?’ she asks, and she thinks she’s being funny. It is a bit of a joke. I kiss her to keep her quiet.

The other day we were watching a movie and somehow Alissa ended up in my lap, her hand on my chest, her lips sliding against mine. I kept opening my eyes and watching her face. At one point, she gripped my jaw and stared right back.

‘What are you doing? I feel like I’m kissing a mannequin.’

I focused on the feeling of her fingers digging into my skin. ‘I’d like to stop kissing—' My mouth stops working. ‘T-today. Today. For today.’

Her mouth curls downward and she drops her hand. ‘I wish you’d just fucking say it already.’

She goes home and when there’s enough distance between us, I text her that we should talk. She calls me immediately.

‘You dragged this out for so long, I think we’re both tired of each other.’

I just say okay; she hangs up. I can still feel the ghost of her fingers on my jaw, in my hair, scratching down my back.

I’m so glad you’re gone. I write it down; I never say it out loud.