Merry-Go-Round

The very things I hated about her were the things I loved about her.

And I was jealous.

It took me a walk around two blocks and a half to keep myself from throwing my phone into the passing silver sedan rolling over pavement to the left of me. Golden, brown, orange leaves crunched underneath my boots as I trudged through the thirty-seven-degrees “just a light breeze today!” weather. Portland gray, somehow, I wasn’t depressed yet.

I rounded the block again, hands shaking and sucking in breath between my chapped lips. I’d wondered too often about someone I didn’t even know enough about, but she pricked the parts of me I felt most insecure, and I hated her for this.

First, it was that guy with the crooked canine tooth, slight smell of cigarette smoke, and green eyes that danced when he gave either of us the slightest attention. Jett black hair. Kind of looked like Leo DiCaprio, but his nose more crooked. Tall enough to hunch his neck to kiss our foreheads.

Second, it was that jock who towered eight inches above the both of us, and all I could do was keep my legs crossed and breathe deeply as I tried to avoid envisioning the previous year’s cock down my throat and sweat in my cheap apartment that I eventually I moved out of to get rid of the memories of him coming over. Night after night, racing to my door when I tried, twice, to end it with him. Third time was a charm.

I’d felt lukewarm about the first, but she had been in love with him. I think at one point she had lived with him. Tim. He was cute, a moment’s notice, but I could hear chalk scraping board whenever she, he, and I happened to be in the same vicinity. In passing. Across campus to chemistry. Economics 205. A gym class once.

She’d grip his hand tighter. His eyes would linger too long at my chest, my hips, into my eyes and out through my lips as I slightly enjoyed the attention at her expense, but my heart kept beating for David, our shared jock interest.

Tim, of course loved her. Who wouldn’t? Her big round eyes were large enough to fall into and her smile slightly upturned at the corner, higher up on the right side of her cheek. Warm, yet distant. Beautiful is how everyone described her behind her back, and I could have swum in misery at the thought David felt the same.

I don’t know when David moved on to his new girlfriend, but I was just grateful it wasn’t her.

His words rang hopeful in my ears for three months prior, “Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want… it’s your eyes that get me. Your lips… Panda Express—chow mien noodles, right? The Crown? Here’s the password to my Netflix account. I’ll be over at seven. Don’t start it without me.” He was kind of a nerd, and I liked that.

But something felt off. Something curdled in the back of my throat when he and I stood at the counter of our student market, and he jolted his head to the right as she and Tim walked in. I’d cackle at the arrogance of those men, if it weren’t for the crisp reminder she could rip David’s attention like that.

Empty promises.

But apparently Tim is also empty, which isn’t much of a surprise. She left him too.

And sure, we were both pretty. And sure, her and I seemed to attract the same men. And sure, her and I were both studious, intelligent and equally as charming. But the fight to keep either man appeased astonished us and, obviously, it was the other’s fault.

It was her fault that men like Tim and David could play on the teeter-totter of emotions, with a kick up into the air and back down faster than necessary. It was her fault men could never be satisfied with just one. There’s always another girl from the merry-go-round of “Pick me!” ‘s that molded into each personality of woman. It was her fault David liked her too.

And she thought it was my fault when Tim reached out to me after their breakup, and I tried to be nice and brush him off to not be “that girl” who’s always intertwined with “drama” that seems to follow most women around while men browse through the menu displayed on social media. Those number of likes under each photo, our worth.

I’d looked. Yes, I’d looked. Scrolled through her feed. Hated her for her seamless way of appearing to be un- “pick me!” and gracefully avoided the oversaturated poses most women choose to take.

I hated the way she dressed. I hated the way she stared at me. I hated the way she made me twitch with anxiety. I hated the way she spoke. I hated the way she seemed so put together. I hated her grace. I hated her beauty.

I hated how giddy I’d get when she would look over her shoulder at me. I hated that I couldn’t make eye contact with her because my cheeks stung beet-red, and I might just faint.

I hated her irritating laugh. I hated how straight her posture was. I hated her eyes. I hated her smile. I hated her nose.

I hated her hips and stomach that surprisingly looked like mine when I was afraid to wear a bikini around her but felt kind of better when I saw she was as imperfect as me, and I’d never been more attracted to someone else’s body before. Just the way it was. Which surprised me. I’m so critical of my own.

I hated her intelligence, but she’s a pretty thoughtful writer and I appreciated this piece she wrote about emotional regulation and I liked the quote at the end.

I hated that picture of her—the one where it’s sunset and she’s in a park and she looks so happy and it took my breath away and it likely would have been my favorite picture in the world had it not been for the nauseating merry-go-round Tim and David strapped us into.

And there’s this drop-in class / meeting thing I feel forced to take. But it’s drop-in, and I choose whether or not to go, but it’s starting to feel like home. It’s on Fridays at seven-thirty. Just some women at night. Out and off the merry-go-round where my stomach stops churning and my shoulders slump less, and I don’t feel as “worth something” as I do when I’m in classrooms full of men.

And I don’t really know if she hates me as much as I hate her. Because I hate her a lot. But despite the prick of annoyance when David winks at her, or Tim turns his gaze toward me, I feel a hole in my chest when I don’t see her on Fridays and I kind of wish she’d be there.

Her presence gives me bigger butterflies than Tim or David ever could.

And I hate her for that too.

*Song inspiration: Sailor Song by Gigi Perez*