You (You #1)(100)

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m sure,” you say. “Fucking sicko.”

I remember last month around this time, you got violent and screamed at me for throwing away a three-day-old burrito that was stinking up your fridge. The next day, you got your period and you kissed me on the cheek.

“I’m not crazy,” you said. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, Beck.”

“I promise,” you said. “When I get nasty like that, it’s like I’m standing outside of myself and I know I’m being terrible and irrational but there’s nothing I can do about it. I have serious PMS issues sometimes.”

I forgave you and I haven’t thought about that moment until now because I know how to be in an everythingship. Anyone who walked in here right now would think you’re nuts, Beck. Anyone would try and protect me and ask you to lower your voice as you assault me with accusations. I’m a pervert and a sicko and a stalker and a hoarder and a psycho and I don’t respond.

“Are you deaf, Joe?”

“You know I’m not deaf.”

You’re screaming again and do I scream at you? Never. When I text you and you don’t respond right away, I let it go. And now it’s your turn to let it go. It’s not like I stole anything that you need. Who looks at their high school yearbook? You’re moving on with your life; I never once saw you look at that thing. You don’t miss those people. And a lot of girls would apologize for invading my privacy. You’re ungrateful right now. You’re still calling me names: depraved, twisted panty-hoarding creep.

You will settle down and I will get through this and I pretend you are a lion at the zoo. I am the zookeeper and I guard the door and I pray that I don’t have to use my fist on you but if I do, you will recover, probably. For now, my job as the zookeeper is to stand by and wait. You’ll wear yourself out soon enough, the same way you wear yourself out on my dick.

“How long has this been going on?”

“There’s no need to raise your voice.”

“How long?” you say and you obey. You use an indoor voice.

“As you know, I was quite taken with you when we met,” I say and maybe there is hope. “You flirted with me and we had a connection and I didn’t want to spring myself on you, you know, ask you right there. So I waited.”

“Uh-huh,” you say and you cross your arms and tap your foot.

“And then I learned about you, Beck,” and I feel like the guy in The Princess Bride and you are as stubborn as Buttercup. “I was enchanted, Beck. I still am. There’s nothing in that box for you to be afraid of.”

You look at the box and you look at me. I don’t know what to do and I feel inadequately prepared for my job as a zookeeper. I want you to see it all, I want you to know the depth of my passion, the power of my grasp, and the certainty of my love. But then again, you’re PMSing, you’re probably still scared from being in the wall, and every once in a while you mumble something about missing that asshole Peach.

“Go ahead,” I say, because there’s no turning back. You can’t put your panties back in the box. Literally and figuratively, the box is scratched and torn; you’ve wrecked it. This is not what I imagined. I want to lead you away from the splayed box, but as a zookeeper, I know I need to keep a safe distance from the animal for the animal’s sake and my own. You burrow through my things that you think of as your things and now you find my pièce de résistance, The Book of Beck. It’s beautiful. You should be flattered that a stand-up guy like me who’s smarter than most guys is creating a tribute to you.

“It’s not done,” I say. “I’m going to have it bound.”

“My stories,” you say and you are you again.

“They’re all there,” I say. We are fine, now, we are.

Any second now, you will run across the room and hug me. I am wrong. Your mouth contorts. You bark, “This is my e-mail.”

“Beck, please,” I say. “It’s a tribute.”

“You hacked my fucking e-mail.”

“I didn’t hack anything,” I snap, because again, you let me down. And you could have told your mother to cancel your fucking phone. That’s on you.

You close the book and drop it in the box. The sun is setting and it’s almost time to turn on the lights. I step toward you. You flinch and you are hateful and here we go again. Now you have new mean names for me like murderer and killer and liar. I remain tough, focused like a zookeeper must when the animals turn violent.

“You don’t mean that,” I say, calm.

“You’re a twisted fucking stalker and you don’t know what I mean.”

“No I’m not,” I say. “No I’m not.”

I chase you. I deflect your barbs and I block you when you come at me. It’s so easy to grab both of your wrists because you’re so little and I’m so strong and I have no trouble forcing you onto the sofa. You can’t fight and when you promise to be good, which you always do, I let go of you and return to my post at the door.

You are panting. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I love you.”

“This isn’t love. This is sick.”

“This is our everythingship,” I say. Our word.