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Then you’d lose your thick, you note, and she laughs. It’s all going swell, it’s all marvellous, and then, in the middle of a sun salutation, you feel a shift in your lower back and —it’s like a sudden power failure.
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And because love, real love, is not so easily shed.
Because you’ve gone through so much together—her father’s death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed on the third attempt).
She brings her own pillow, one of those expensive foam ones, and her own toothbrush, and she takes it all with her on Monday morning. You send her one exploratory text, but it’s never answered. You two are pushing his daughter’s stroller around the playground near Columbia Terrace.
And you thought this guy was a good idea for what reason? A little kissing, a little feeling up, but nothing beyond that. Within an hour, she has unfriended you on Facebook.
You’re out all the time, but no one seems to be biting. One girl, when you tell her you’re Dominican, actually says, Hell no, and runs full tilt toward the door. One month, two months, three months, and then some hope. You get serious about classes and, for your health, you take up running.
You begin to wonder if there’s some secret mark on your forehead. He’s working for this ghetto-ass landlord and starts taking you with him on collection day. Deadbeats catch one peep of your dismal grill and cough up their debts on the spot. You start three novels: one about a pelotero, one about a narco, and one about a bachatero—all of them suck pipe.
She is immensely sad on that beach and she walks up and down the shining sand alone, her bare feet in the freezing water, and when you try to hug her she says, .
She stares at the rocks jutting out of the water, the wind carrying her hair straight back.
You put your lips against the baby’s stomach and blow. She had him with a banilejo who had four other kids with four other women. You and Noemi fall into a little pattern: on Sunday you take her out to dinner—she doesn’t eat anything remotely adventurous, so it’s always Italian—and then she stays the night. Three Sundays in a row she sleeps over, and three Sundays in a row nada. This is your last chance, but instead of begging for mercy you bark, Fine. After you pull yourself together, you tell Elvis, I think I need a break from the bitches. You pass each other a couple of times a week, and she’s a pleasure to watch, a gazelle, really—what economy, what gait, and what an amazing fucking cuerpazo.Tags: Adult Dating, affair dating, sex dating