the months of us.

November. [is this love]
We saw one another everyday.
Four a.m. came too quickly, four a.m. was always when the conversation blurred, when the storytelling ended.
Autumn was spent in a Cadillac, hot breath painting steam on the glass. That question continuously unanswered, "do you love me yet?" I saw the smirk on his face before turning away from him. I couldn't say for sure. I couldn't let myself get away with it, with him.

December. [guilt]
I felt the jealousy swell, waves before crashing against the shore. I waited, pretending to watch T.V., while he locked himself in the bathroom, cell phone pressed against his ear. There, he played the role of the boyfriend-in-a-four-year-relationship, asking her how her day was, what did she have for dinner, will she visit her mother? My ears stopped straining to listen when the door unlocked, he stepped out, drifted over to me and placed firm hands on my thighs. The jealousy ebbed, undulated -- underneath the pressure of his fingertips, subsided. I've made this choice. It wasn't about her, I thought, it was about us.

January. [fades]
I never believed in ultimatums. I couldn't do that to him, but how long could we last? The guilt triumphed, and I told him to choose, to make a decision -- it was either me or her. The next day I took it back, said, begged, pleaded for him not to choose. The fear of losing us greater than anything else.
His lectures were a constant, I had to make changes in my life. I was wasting away the days, I only knew him. I needed to find a job, needed to apply to school, needed to find substance. Or perhaps, just a distraction from the lies.

February. [hallmark for lovers]
I didn't ask him to be my valentine; we hadn't even talked about it. I didn't -- and still don't -- believe in preserving one day dedicated to a significant other. Shouldn't all days be that way? But February 14th had come too quickly for us. He had his valentine: her, who kept his heart. I remember asking: "How is it possible for you to love two people at once?" I hadn't realized then (foolish girl) that he wasn't in love with me. Even though he ritualistically repeated how much he was, in fact, in love with me. He didn't mean it. If he had meant it, he wouldn't have been with her, and with me.