November 11th, Year 22

One week. I have spent seven evenings with a man. I no longer mind having my time wasted. We do not talk much, since we lack commonalities. I don’t ask questions, because there is nothing about him that looks interesting. His eyes are hazy from drug use, and stupidity. He stares at the sky as we smoke cigarette after cigarette. He is not lost in wonder, it’s simply that his brain is desperately attempting to shut down. Then, we kiss. That leads to nothing more daring. It is uncomplicated, easy. My body refuses to respond, while his seems to fill with a gentle fire.

His affection for me is sincere. While I have only recently begun to speak with him, he had tried on many occasions, over the course of several years, to get me to notice him. He is tall, pale, with flaxen-hair, and an unconventional, but undeniable beauty. That is not enough to make an impression on me. It was his name that caught my attention. Joseph. It is both rough and humble.

Joseph tells me that he has grown attached to me. He wants us to move forward as a couple, bound by monogamy. I stare at him blankly, or I laugh. One week is not enough time to know this, I say, but remember how I have known exactly what I wanted from another, in the past. There is no sense of urgency here. Nothing worth grabbing hold of, and nurturing until it reaches its full potential. It is an empty feeling.

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November 11th, Year 22

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