Megan from Minneapolis

Honestly.

I know this guy. He is the only guy I know who has never lied to me. Never. Not once. Which, if you think about it, it’s pretty sad I only know one guy who has always been honest with me, but moving on. One guy has. He’s never told me he’d call and didn’t. He never said he’d see me soon and then disappeared. He’s never told me something he didn’t mean, never done anything behind my back, never intentionally, or really even unintentionally, deceived me. Never. Not once.

This guy is an asshole. Not always, but a lot. He has his moments of sweetness, but for every act of kindness there are five more acts of rudeness, selfishness and impatience. More than once I have deleted his phone number after a particularly frustrating conversation, and sworn I’d never speak to him again.

But I always do.

There was this night. The night he kicked me out of his apartment. We were sitting in his living room and it was getting late.

“Ok, time for you to go home,” he told me.

I was stunned. “Huh?”

“You didn’t think you were staying, did you?”

I stammered and he laughed. I asked him why I had to leave.

“Because I want you to,” is what he said.

I thought it was a joke. Until he shut the door to my cab on 6th Avenue and waved as I rode away.

This guy made me furious. But two weeks later, when he called and asked to see me again, I agreed. And we had fun. I didn’t get mad at him, I didn’t even mention how angry he’d made me.

Why? Because he didn’t lie to me. He didn’t kiss me goodbye, tell me he’d miss me, say he’d see me soon. He simply told me the truth, he wanted me to leave. Cruel? Yes. Fair and honest? Also yes. And as upsetting as it was, I just can’t fault someone for being truthful.

With every guy I meet who tells me exactly what I want to hear, only for me to find out a few days, weeks, sometimes months later it was an empty gesture, I realize the value of a guy who will simply tell the truth. This guy is far from perfect, but he’s honest. And I can’t get mad at him for that. Because honestly, I wish every guy I meet would be more like him.

On being romantic.

In the recent past, on more than one occasion, I have been called “unromantic” by members of the opposite sex. Now, I’ve never been a girl who doodled hearts in her notebook or made a wedding binder, so I know that in terms of my gender, I’m in the bottom percentiles. But to hear such comments from the opposite sex as well has startled me a bit. 

Because even though I never practiced signing my name with his last, or started a “rehearsal dinner idea” Pinterest board, I never thought of myself as “unromantic.” Overly romantic, no, but not romantic, well, not that either. I think my problem (if you can call being unromantic a problem), is I think reality is romantic. 

I don’t think first kisses in rose gardens, or ice-skating dates, or long walks in Central Park, or proposals on hot air balloons, or weddings in exotic places, or perfectly framed family photos, or sitting on front porch swings together in old age are particularly romantic. That’s not to say I don’t like and want each of those things (except for the hot air balloon proposal, but that’s another story entirely), but there’s nothing about them, to me, that says romance. They are just events. Things that can or can not happen. If you want them and can make them a part of your reality, that’s great. But if you can’t, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means that to you, they weren’t real. And there’s nothing fake that’s romantic. 

I think my problem is I think reality is romantic. I think first kisses in cars, or dates running errands, or long walks through a super market, or proposals on the couch, or weddings in the pretty church down the street, or embarrassing family photos, or old age spent in a nursing home together is romantic. They are romantic because they are real. They are romantic because they mean I’m here for real life. Not for the pre-planned perfection, but for the spontaneous imperfection that comes from just being there. To me, romance is just being there.

I think my problem is I think reality is romantic.

All day long, whenever I felt sad or annoyed or alone, I looked at the text message I woke up to this morning and smiled.

It really doesn’t take that much to make me happy.

A Non-Exhaustive List Of Things Of Which I Am Sick Right Now

Red nail polish. Cloudy days. Dieting. Drinking water. People who don’t respond to text messages. People who leave urgent voicemails. People who leave urgent voicemails but then don’t pick up when you call them back. People who leave urgent voicemails, don’t pick up when you call them back and never call you back. People who don’t call you back. The NBA. Award Shows. Checking my bank account balance. Doing my laundry. Paying to do my laundry. Paying to do my laundry with machines that don’t work. Commercials on the radio. Pants. Nothing good to watch on TV. Feeling guilty. Feeling like I’m not good enough. People who don’t appreciate me. Shaving my legs. Buffering. People who lie. Lies. Acne. Putting Z’s on the ends of words instead of S’s or just because. Checking my phone to see if people have texted or called me back. Checking my phone and seeing that people haven’t texted or called me back. Being cold. Guys who can’t take a hint. Makeup that wears off before noon. My perm. Cleaning my apartment. My apartment. Thought Catalog. That little multi-colored spinning wheel on my Mac when it’s running slow. Getting lost. Setting an alarm. Forgetting things on my to-do list. My to-do list. Missing things. Missing people. Never having quite enough. Being jealous. Being unsure. Being scared. Being alone.

Fact or Fiction?

“So you have a key?” I asked him and he promised he’d show me someday. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him. An hour earlier, when he called and said he’d do anything to make it up to me, I hadn’t trusted him to travel uptown, kneel below my window and beg for my forgiveness. But here he was, sitting with me under my umbrella on the edge of a sidewalk garden across the street from my apartment.

Maybe it was the rain. The combination of his dedication and romance. Maybe I was cold. But soon I trusted him enough to sit across from him on my bed. A few weeks later, sitting across from him on his bed, I was embarrassed I’d invited him inside my Upper East Side apartment with paint flaking off the walls. As I shut the door to my bedroom I hoped he hadn’t noticed. If he did, he didn’t seem to mind.

He kissed me. I tasted scotch and cigars.

My cell phone lit up with a name. A boy, exactly 50 blocks away. Two nights before, he had set his gun precisely where his name appeared now. The scotch and cigars turned the blocks into miles. As I flipped over the phone I hoped he hadn’t noticed. If he did, he didn’t seem to mind.

An hour later, he left. I watched him catch a cab out my window.

The cab turned left, then right, taking him home to his Gramercy Park loft. I thought about the last hour, our conversation interrupted with soft touches and kisses, the way I’d leaned my forehead on his shoulder. I’d told him stories I rarely told anyone, and never someone I’d met just the day before. Stories that made me look broken.

As his cab turned the corner and disappeared I hoped he hadn’t noticed. If he did, he didn’t seem to mind.