Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,5

their dorm room.

I call Her up again, to tell Her to build a mini-version of San Jose for me to devastate. This time she answers and tells me she is on the phone long-distance with Her aunt. “I’ll call you back,” she promises. I want to kill every member of Her extended family.

I call Her up again because I want to go over the blueprints for a miniature Atlanta because I crave catastrophe. I want to tell Her I am the new William Tecumseh Sherman. She would get the reference, I think. Like I said, I was pretty drunk. It goes right to voice mail. Right now I hate Her voice because it reminds me of how much I think about Her. The faker. And I can’t stop thinking about Her. I miss Her lips curling around those Q’s. I miss Her body. After a while, when one bounces back and forth between different hearts, nothing gets old. You never really have to mean anything to anyone. My intimacy problems are with the world.

Finally, a call. I pick Her up at Her apartment, even though I probably shouldn’t be driving. Her eyes are blackened around the edges so much that she looks like a raccoon. They look permanently bruised. She’s always the consummate victim. Her hair looks like rows of shark teeth, just jagged dye jobs on top of one another, running away from Her natural color. No one wants to be what they are. We drive around the city so she can alternate between smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. We talk about the kids we hate just so we have something to talk about.

We’re sitting on the edge of my bed now, in my apartment. Every single inch on Her body is filled with millions of nerves. Somewhere inside Her brain neurons have fired to synapses and put them on alert. When my hands brush Hers, it feels electric. Every movement has a meaning, either yes or no. It’s getting later and later.

The conversation and the possibilities are running out. Last call. Every time she moves Her hand to Her hair, she is sending me signals—fight or flight. Why can’t I figure them out? Don’t strike first. Wait until I’m tired enough to make a move. Lean in to kiss Her, bringing an awkward break in conversation. As I pull back, she keeps talking about writers she thinks will make Her look cooler. She’s changed, I think. Or maybe I have. There’s too much distance between us now to tell. Too much water under the bridge. Too much mileage between the legs. It’s awful.

I push my tongue into Her mouth to kill the conversation. She smells like stale cigarettes, smoked by boys who were me on nights before. This is all I can think about as we begin undressing one another, panting with false ferocity. It’s all a show, and we both know it. Her body feels hollow. I push on anyway.

Afterward, we lie in my bed, and I trace my finger down the scar on Her back. It runs the length of Her spine, as if somebody tried to steal it. I joke at Her like this: “Someone must have ignored the blueprints, look at all the structural damage.” But I stutter and trail off. The smoke curls off Her lips. For a second, I am dying to be it. Dying to be as clever and kissable as Her. There she is, lying in front of me, smoking a cigarette, thinking of something or someone else. And that’s how she is stuck in my mind forever. We are two explorers in the dark. Mapless and hopeless. Alone together.

It’s funny how easy it is to sleep with someone, but how hard it is to sleep next to someone. It’s too intimate. It makes my heart race and pound inside my chest. It’s deafening. I slide my arm from behind Her head and slip out the door. I think I hear Her wake up, but I don’t stop. It’s summer in Chicago, there’s a warm breeze on the street. Everything feels wrong. Street signs are watching me go over every moment in my head. Watching me remember Her. Mistake by mistake. Frame by frame. I’m not just taking trips down memory lane; I am broken down on it.

I am a corpse bored with my own funeral. I live like a gypsy, only with less gold and maybe more curses. People say I can’t run away from my problems. I am