Family & Friends

I Still Hate Your New Boyfriend

It's stuck.



It has become one with the floor.



You glare.


You complain.


You know it has to go.



I hand you a screwdriver.


I Still Hate Your New Boyfriend

You use the flat end to push at the melted, atrophied cherry lozenge, willing it to separate itself from the faux wooden tiles. It finally succumbs and you are generous in your praise.



I remind you to wipe down the screwdriver and we both laugh as we imagine returning it to our mother, bits of lozenge ardently clinging on.



It's a little thing, but I am proud to have helped.



You send me away to return some books to a friend who is no longer a friend. I come back to the mostly empty apartment, startled by its new starkness and by the presence of a man. A man that you had mentioned to me before in passing. A man that I didn't want to know.


I Still Hate Your New Boyfriend

Stooped shoulders, dark hair.



You blush and smile like you've never done before and I can't help but wonder what about this slight man fills you with such youthful, silly giddiness. He stands up to shake my hand and I hate him already.



He is an interloper, an unwanted variable in the often fractured duo that is you and me. He asks me about my summer plans, his voice soft and gentle. I answer him while I wonder what it is that draws you and your brilliant sharpness to this spineless thing.



You tell me to wait in the car as you two dismantle the bed. In the elevator, I stand still, envisioning my body plummeting down the seventeen floors, pencil-diving through the concrete.



An hour passes before you both come down, the last of your possessions resting on a cart. I get out of the car and pick up the lamp with the little cartoon owls etched on the shade, the one I always tease you about.



From the corner of my eye, I can see him vacillate. Should he help me or should he stand aside? I laugh in my head, relishing in the knowledge that I'm making him nervous. I finish quickly as he stands to the side, clearly more decorative than useful. I would have hoped for more for my fierce sister.



Right before we leave, I see you two hug briefly in my rear-view mirror. I look away until you get inside the car. The man approaches my window and wishes me luck in the future. The sun hits his eyes and I catch a glimpse of a piercing sea green.


I Still Hate Your New Boyfriend

I remember you telling me, some years ago, about this man. You had shown me a picture of him and I was thoroughly unimpressed. You said, 'You don't get it. You have to meet him in person, Beelzebub. His eyes are beautiful.'



I scoffed at you then and wondered if all your hard work and ambition had finally addled your brains.



I think I get it now, sister. A little bit. Even though I really don't want to.

I Still Hate Your New Boyfriend
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