Easier

By Julie Pastor

Photo by Karl Martin Sætren on Unsplash

This is how it happened.

You or I got off the bus and met on the street. We held hands until I let yours drop because the sidewalks were crowded or my palm was sweaty or I wanted to hurt you. You tried to take it back, but I adjusted the strap of my bag or combed a loose piece of hair or dug in a pocket.

We went to lunch, and you frowned because of what I ordered or because I didn’t want to share or because I thought the waiter was nice and you didn’t. We ate, and I rolled my eyes because you didn’t finish your food or you chewed too loudly or you looked at me too much.

You kissed me because it felt good or you wanted to stop fighting or you wanted to show you were mine. I watched our reflections in the buildings because they looked real or they looked like us or they looked more real than us.

We went into shops because we liked pretending we needed things or that we didn’t want things or that we wanted to need things. You tried on leather pants because you knew I’d laugh or you knew I’d take pictures or you knew I’d say that you pulled them off.

You scoffed at a dress I liked because it was too expensive or too unnecessary or too unflattering. You smiled because I didn’t buy it or because I did and made a show of how sexy I could make it.

You opened a jar because my hands were wet or my arms were weak or because you liked to appear strong. We cooked dinner, and I argued with you for not following the recipe or for not using a recipe or for always using the same recipe.

I put on music, and you turned it down because it was too loud or you didn’t like it or because I didn’t understand you were trying to work. I danced because it bothered you or I knew you’d join me or because I’d once wanted the floorboards to always sound like our footsteps.

We had sex because it felt good or we wanted to stop fighting or because it always felt like it might be the last time. You told me to beg because it made you feel powerful or it made you feel mine or it got you off.

I brought conditioner because I didn’t want to smell like you or because you didn’t understand how it was different from shampoo. You borrowed my toothbrush because you always forgot yours or because I was always never making space for your things.

I was irritated because it was too late to talk or because you were only saying the same things you’d said before. You were angry because it was too early for conversation or because you were disappointed to see me and remember you weren’t alone.

You whistled because you were happy or because it annoyed me or because you somehow didn’t realize you were doing it. I smoked because you hated it or I wanted to start fighting or I wanted to show I wasn’t yours.

We read because we had to or we wanted to or because it meant we didn’t need to speak. We watched movies because you loved them or because I did or because we remembered when it had been thrilling to hold hands in the dark.

You wore clothes she’d bought because they were nice or they looked good or because you wanted to hurt me. I lost the necklace you gave me because I was always losing things or breaking things or because I didn’t want to see signs of you on my body.

We went to a bar, and you glared because I drank too much or I talked too loudly or I told stories that weren’t about you. You looked at a girl because you wanted to make me jealous or you didn’t love me or you found her attractive.

We told our friends things were good because we thought it was true or we couldn’t see that it wasn’t or because it was easier not to get into it. They took photos of us because we were beautiful or because we were there or because their posts proved we’d been together that weekend.

You draped your arm around me because you were performing or because you loved me or because it was easier to be a person who wasn’t alone. I kissed you because I loved us or because I’d loved the idea of us for so long I couldn’t see what we were anymore.

We got lost on the way home because I was stubborn or I didn’t want you to win or because that man in the red coat gave us bad directions. You took a shortcut because you thought it’d be faster or you knew where to go or you wanted to be the one to lead.

You spoke of our limitless future because you were young or you believed you were wise or you wanted to prove you weren’t young by acting wise. You made choices for me because you thought you were right or you thought you knew best or you thought I wasn’t capable of choosing.

I laughed at your anger to make you feel stupid or to make you fight back or because you didn’t realize you had something stuck in your teeth. We hurled words because we hated each other or we hated ourselves or we hated each other for what we’d done to ourselves.

I cried because I was sorry or because you weren’t or because you’d never need me the way I needed you to. You held me because you loved me or because you once had or because it would be easier if I just calmed down.

You made me come because you wanted me or you wanted to stop fighting or because it was the only way you could control me. I asked for it rougher because I didn’t want you to see me or to adore me or to forget how good I was.

We walked to the bus station because we each had work to do or classes to attend or a life to return to that wasn’t shared. We looked at the buildings around us because we’d someday live here together or we someday wouldn’t or we someday wouldn’t believe we’d ever wanted to.

You kissed me because I was there or because I soon wouldn’t be or because it was easier to love an idea than a person.

And it was then that you or I frowned as we surrendered a suitcase to a man loading luggage, suddenly remembering forgotten phone chargers, lost socks, beloved books.

We’ll get them next time, we said.

But shouldn’t we be better at this, we thought, by now?

About the author:

Julie Pastor is a writer and museum professional based in New York. She holds a BA from the University of Wisconsin and an MA from Bard College. This is her fiction debut.