Her teeth reminded me of her, the teeth of my mate’s girl, though I had seen them many times before. Why now? So sharp! So jagged! So sure! and I couldn’t help but think of her then.

            My mate’s girl, not unlike her, to come and take care of a wounded young man at his beck and call at all hours of the day and night, at the drop of a 10¢ cap—to wait on him for hours on end, to wait on him hand and foot, to wait on a wish and a whim… to treat him with every loving bone in her body, with every adoring cell in her satchel, maybe suspecting, but never knowing, that she’s a placeholder, a bookmark—a space in time for him to relax and have a breath—and even in her suspicion, even though it is so, enjoying it all for all it’s worth all the same; enjoying the refuge she creates for him, with him.

            She pulled me through and stood me up, she rubbed me down and gave me drugs—soft porcelain face, big ocean eyes, short lilac hair. The product of a punk rock lobotomy and a childhood abortion gone wrong, with a little too much ’hood in her for my liking—you could tell when she talked, you could tell when she showed those crazycrooked teeth in that lovelydisaster of a mouth, not unlike when her mouth hung open in an ‘O’ shape and her cheeks rose with that wildfun look in her eye, because I had just made a not-so-clever joke at her expense, I had showed her attention, and she fell for me just an itty-bitty smidge more.

            She said she believed in me, I told her I believed her. It felt good to have her there.

            I had the old talk with her, numerous times. The one where I tell her I’m not trying to get serious, that I just got out of—and am still very much incapacitated by—a troubling and traumatic relationship, to sound dramatic, to say the least. Each time, she nodded as if she understood—each time, I knew it was a lie: an act, a charade, something she felt she had to do because she thought that’s what I wanted from her. I wanted the truth. Or did I? Each time, I died inside, but I needed her.

            She believed in me, she just didn’t believe me. I couldn’t believe it. We were a great team.

            Goddess, angel—these words are too lame, too powerful, too wrong. She was a woman for me. I mean, she was very much a girl, but she was very much a woman for me—at an excruciating and confusing time in my life (aren’t they all?)—and for that, I am eternally grateful. I don’t know if I ever showed that enough. Though we spoke and met a few times after I put an end to whatever it was we had, she’s cut me out of her life ever since; I don’t know how she feels.

            Not long after, she started a serious relationship with a guy who seemed a better fit, who seemed to treat her right, who seemed to be just as heartbroken as her. I think they’re still together. This is enough for me, this makes me happy—that she found someone to provide what I could not. She always deserved it, after all. She was always right: I could only treat her wrong.

            At one point, she sent me a letter. Yeah, a letter—I know! In 2016 AD! She knew it would get me. Sadly, it did not. The words held power, passion, pain—but they were written in a hideous hand. The spelling and grammar were atrocious. I couldn’t believe for something that seemed so important to her, such a lovelorn brokenhearted power move meant to tear me down and beat me up, that she didn’t consult a dictionary or take her time making the words look nice. The bad grammar’s understandable, we all know damn well there ain’t no place easy to look that up. But, I digress… I did appreciate it, I did find it romantic and old-fashioned and thoughtful and sweet, though I don’t know if she sent it more for me, or for her. No matter.

            What did I do? In response, I wrote a short poem, two sentences obliterating her effort, and I published it in a public forum. For that, I am a piece of shit. I’m 99.96% sure she saw it. However, I don’t know if she will ever see this:

            Emily, I am sorry. Not sorry for what happened between us, as we had some great times—we learned, we loved, and it was how it had to be. No, I am not sorry for that. I am sorry it’s taken me this long to write this. I am sorry it’s taken me two years to miss you. But, most of all, I am sorry that at times like this, I miss everyone.

            I’ve been long overdue for a night like this.

            Goddamn, it’s good to be alone.