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I hold your sweatshirt in my arms, the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder. No, I don’t have it, I lie to you.
Only because I don’t want to see her wearing it.
No, I don’t know where it is, I lie again.
Only because I don’t want to let you go. I can’t let you go. You hang up without saying good-bye. I press your sweatshirt to my face. Despite all of the times I’ve worn it, it still smells like you.
She came over yesterday, I would have told you, if you hadn’t hung up. She asked me if I was okay with you two.
I lied then too. She saw your sweatshirt, hanging on the back of my chair. She knew it was yours. I could tell because she looked surprised. But that’s probably why you called today, isn’t it.
She’s all wrong for you, in case you’re wondering. When she came over she was wearing heels. You’ve always laughed at girls who wear heels. You’ve also always laughed at the girls who cake their faces in make-up. So why are you going out with one of those such girls?
Plus, she frowned at my old movie collection. The collection that you and I started together.
I open my bedroom window, breathing in the earthy smell that the rain has dug up. You two walk by, hand in hand, huddled under an umbrella, laughing on your way to the 2:15 movie. You both look up and smile. Nice heels.
I smile back.
Then I chuck your balled up sweatshirt out into the rain.
But you don’t even notice. You’ve already moved on.
Regrettingly I scamper out into my lawn and pick up the sweatshirt. I apologize to it, as if it has feelings, and put it in the dryer.
Amazingly, it still smells good, like your perfume.
Even better is when you show up, and dry my tears, apologizing.
Nice heels, I say sarcastically.
They’re not mine, you laugh, taking them off and throwing them out into the rain.
And that is why I love you.