June Tenth

On June tenth we go out for frozen yogurt. It’s a compromise because I want something sweet but you’re on a diet again. I tell you that you look great already. You say it’s not for me, anyway. I get chocolate swirl to spite you, so I can smirk as you eat your half cup of low-fat vanilla with some bullshit sugar additive. When I kiss you later, your lips are sweet with an aftertaste.

On June tenth you rant about some poem you don’t like and I pretend to be interested. It’s not hard because I actually used to be interested—it’s called method acting. Except I get tired and slip up, and you catch me looking at cake on my phone. You get mad, but not because I’m not listening. You get mad because it’s a picture of cake and that makes you hungry again. It’s not my fault you’re on a diet. When we kiss later, your lips have an aftertaste.

On June tenth you text me that you’re bored and lonely. I’m contractually obligated to go. I pull myself from the couch where I’m bingeing some reality show. I say let’s go get something to eat. You say you want a wrap but I want something sweet. We make a compromise.

On June tenth I say I want to buy an instrument. Maybe a guitar. Probably a guitar. She asks me why, but I don’t tell her because she won’t like the answer—my high school boyfriend used to play one. I’m feeling dumbly nostalgic about fake memories. She says I waste too much time making scrapbooks when they always turn out looking shitty. I say she wastes too much time  organizing calendars when her plans always get cancelled. She’s on a diet, so I get chocolate swirl to spite her.

On June tenth I stay up really late refreshing Instagram. I have strange dreams, probably from eating chocolate swirl so close to sleep. She’s playing guitar and her hair is wet—it always looks better when it’s wet. I get closer and it turns out her hair is actually frozen yogurt. I lick it and it’s sweet. When I kiss her later, it’s a compromise.

Kimberly Ramos