Way to go. Like I’m some kid who finally managed to tie his shoes.
I mean, what did I expect? A parade? Dirty texts about what he wants to do to celebrate?
Actually, yeah, that second one would’ve been nice. Because Forest has been spectacularly unavailable lately. And I’m starting to take it personally.
We’ve had more sex these past couple weeks. Once on the sofa. Once in his bed, and then in his shower.
But we aren’t so great at planning it. One of us (okay, it’s usually me) just texts “you free?” and if the answer is yes, we end up naked and sweaty and pretending it’s no big deal.
It is, though—for me. For Forest… not so much. When we’re together, he’s all in. I’m treated to a few hours of his full-blast attention. Those brown eyes and that strong body and that rich laugh. It’s intoxicating.
But in the morning, I always leave the second he starts looking antsy. I know I’m supposed to. But it always leaves me with an emotional hangover. Because, inevitably, Forest drops off the face of the earth for a while afterward.
Then the cycle starts again—me wondering if it’s too soon to text him. Spending hours thinking about him and scouring the internet for exactly the right hockey meme to make him smile. I’ll take photos on my road trips and then agonize over whether he wants to hear from me or not.
Sometimes he replies, and we’ll have a half hour of chatter. I live for those times. The other day I’d mentioned that I didn’t understand the phrase under the weather, because aren’t we all just under the weather, except for a couple of astronauts up at the ISS?
And then he’d said he’d never understood why people say the whole nine yards “when everyone knows that in football, nine yards doesn’t get you shit.”
Another time I’d sent him a screen shot of a sporty edition of that “Connections” puzzle in The New York Times, and he called me to discuss. We sat up too late talking about everything and nothing, and I went to bed happier than ever.
But those moments are the exception, not the rule. Most of the time he doesn’t return my messages for hours. And when he does, it’s with a word or two, or a thumbs-up.
There's something uniquely soul crushing about a thumbs-up emoji. It should come with a warning label: May cause existential crisis in people who overthink digital communication. It's approval without engagement, acknowledgment without investment. It’s the conversational equivalent of a polite golf clap—technically positive, but somehow more devastating than complete silence.
This week has been especially dire. Feeling reckless, I let my feelings fly.
I stopped 37 pucks last night and only had one minor existential crisis between periods, which is personal growth.
Also, you haven’t said anything filthy to me in days and I’m starting to wilt like one of those plants that needs misting.
Hope your night’s good. Mine would be better if you were in it.
PS: Miss your stupid beard.
He doesn’t manage to reply for another couple of hours, after I’ve spent a lot of time doing laundry and driving to the grocery store and anxiously checking my phone for a response.
Forest
You’re right, okay? I’m sorry. Just really tied up.
I hope he doesn’t mean literally. And now I feel stupid that I complained, and uncertain what I should say next. He’s probably going to avoid me now. I can feel it through the phone, right here in the cereal aisle of King Soopers. Like a superpower I never wanted—the ability to detect emotional distance via text message.
Very useful for a guy who’s already an expert at reading too much into everything.
My phone buzzes with a new message, and for a pathetic second my heart jumps. But it’s just my roommate.
Rigsy
Dude where are you? Alien Genocide awaits. Martinez is coming over, too.
Right. Our Monday night gaming session. We’re never on the road on a Monday night, so this has become our sacred tradition. I add a case of beer to my shopping cart, check out, and then drive home.
Our little rental house looks exactly like every other rental house in Loveland—beige siding, dying lawn, and a front porch that’s one strong wind away from collapsing. But it’s cheap, and it’s five minutes from the rink, and Rigsy doesn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink for weeks at a time.
Well, not usually.
“Becks!” he calls when I walk in. “Perfect timing. I just hit level forty-seven and unlocked the plasma rifle. We’re about to make some alien bastards very unhappy.”
