Etude #3

Language barrier

He texted me again, and he came over, and after we fucked, he said, “⛔💋🚬, 👨.”

I did get lipstick on his vape, purposefully and maliciously. A streak of glittering black and purple, a little galaxy shaped like a kiss. But there were more important things to discuss.

“⛔👨. 👩🏿=♀️” I said.

He put his hand on my thigh.

“❓😉” he asked.

I didn’t have an answer, so I took a long hit and let a cloud come out my nose like a dragon, a trick I picked up in college to amuse people. He never seemed amused, but I still did it every time, because maybe he liked it and just didn’t show it, and I didn’t want to risk it. I handed it back to him, and he took his own hit, quick and sharp.

“👩🏿=👨,🧒=👨,👪󠀽󠀽=👨, ♾️=👨.” he said.

It’s very nice that he calls everyone 👨, sure. All men are brothers, of course. But there is a context here. There are implications. Our actions don’t exist as objective projections of our will. One has to navigate the semiotics of the situation. But how to phrase it?

“🤔💭📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚—”

He gave me a kiss. It was soft and wet and pleasantly garlicky.

“🤫,” he said, when the kiss had broken, and he laughed like it was a joke.

He always kisses me when he wants me to stop talking. I know that’s bad. I know. I’ve read enough books to know exactly why it is bad and how it is bad, the shape and color and angle and velocity of misogyny. But I like that he likes to kiss me. Even if it’s because he thinks I talk too much, I like that he likes to kiss me.

“🚗🍔,” I said.

“⛔,” he said. “🚚.”

“🏃🏿‍♀️🏃🏻🏠,” I said. “🌇.”

I’ve slept with him on and off for a few years now. You know how it is. He’s never been my boyfriend. He is, at heart, a dumb piece of garbage, and as a result, there’s nothing he could ever do to really hurt me. I can talk to him in a way that I can’t talk to most other men, because I don’t really care if he likes me.

But even though he is not my boyfriend, I had decided it was time for him to take on more boyfriendly duties, time to upgrade the relationship from fuckpals to casual date-friends (but not boyfriend/girlfriend, obviously. I’m not a little girl tying knots) So I decided to lay the trap, entice him into an entanglement. But how does one get someone to buy the milk when they’ve been fucking the cow for free? This is a difficult thing for gals like me. It’s like the old saying goes, always the animated merkin, never the glorified pot-au-feu.

“🍕,” he said.

“⛔🍕. 🍛🫓❓.👍🏿👍🏿❤️🍛.🤏🏾🍻🌉.”

“⛔,” he said. “⛔💭💭💭💭💭💭.”

“⛔❓” I asked.

“🤔🤔🤔,” he said.

“🗣️.”

“👩🏿≠🐩. 🍻+🍕=👩🏿‍🤝‍👨🏻. 👩🏿=😌.”

I decided to say what I mean. I never say what I mean. I am physically disgusted by it. But maybe this is how one obtains one’s deserts, a well placed speech act and a beautiful smile.

“👨🍆🍑→🏃🏿‍♀️🏃🏻🏠”

A long quiet, like the blank space between stars.

“🤷‍♂️,” he said. “👩🏿‍🤝‍👨🏻=🙂. 👩🏿‍🤝‍👨🏻≠💖. 🏃‍♂️📅👱‍♀️⏰.”

And I saw myself reflected in his eyes, and I imagined a crunchy, yellowed sock stuffed into a dank drawer. Or maybe that’s too sentimental. A crumpled tissue on a bedside dresser beside a container of lotion. You get it.

“🤷🏿‍♀️,” I said.

He got up and got dressed. I watched, still naked. He stood in front of my bedroom mirror and tied his tie in a Grantchester knot. A poor choice. The four-in-hand is a much easier knot with a similar shape. It was, in fact, my preferred day-to-day tie back when I wore ties, quick and easy to tie, stylishly asymmetric, familiar but not a cliche. The only advantage of the Grantchester over the four-in-hand is that it is bigger, as big as a full Windsor. This I assume is what draws him to it. It is big, and he is big.

His knot was sloppy and irregular. He undid it and did it again. He undid it and did it again. It’s ugly every time. I slipped behind him wordlessly, still naked, and I began to do it for him. He raised his arms up, and I could see a little smile reflected in the mirror.

“⬅️⬇️, ➡️⬆️, ➡️⬆️, ➡️⬆️⬆️, ➡️⬇️, ⬅️⬆️,🔄,⬆️,⬇️,↕️,” I say.

I never liked the Grantchester, but I learned it perfect. I know them all perfect. Once, plumbing the depths of esoteric masculinities was a nice distraction from the agony of being.

He didn’t say 🙏. He put on his shoes, a pair of expensive brown leather Oxfords that I’m sure he paid too much for. People pay too much for things because they confuse cost for value, because they do not use their eyes and their fingers and their tongues to know the world. They just use their ears, filled with other people’s words.

“👩🏿+👨+🍕?” he asked. “📆?”

And of all the things I could say, I said, “😍,” like the dumbest bitch in the world.

He left without kissing me, because I was silent, and he didn’t need to shut me up.