NINE OF SWORDS
IX

I still remember the first time I saw her. I don't know if there's any memory I can conjure up in more vivid detail. I was fifteen and she was eighteen, but I was tall and mean, and she was short and gentle. She wore a white and blue striped shirt, and a pair of wire framed glasses. Her sleeves were rolled up, and held in place with those elbow-buttons I had previously thought were stupid. Green cargo pants and grey low-top converse with a stain on her right toe. Her headphones were white and red, with cracks in the earmuff parts from being worn to pieces. The first time I made eye contact with her, I truly, one-hundred-fucking-percent, was in love with her. I don't know why. I had met prettier girls before, and I've met prettier girls after, and none have illicited the same response. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I don't believe in love anymore. I believe the thing we call infatuation is the closest thing to it. I think everybody gets one or two shots at infatuation in their life, and the rest of their relationships are spent trying to recreate that magic. I don't think it's ever successful, but I think successful couples are the ones who get the closest to recreating that infatuation in the long-term. Don't get me wrong, this isn't the opinion of some incel who wants his highschool sweetheart back. I've had plenty of girls be infatuated with me. I know what it's like to be on the receiving end. It doesn't change my mind.

I had been dating another sophomore for over a year, and she was a senior getting ready to go to college. After a month of stealing glances around corners and stumbling over words when she'd talk to me, she told me she was into me and that she wanted me to dump my girlfriend for her. It took me an hour after hearing this to dump my girlfriend, a day before valentine's day no less. I shouldn't have done it that way. God, if you were me, you'd be sick of that phrase by now. I shouldn't have done it that way.
I tried learning her mother tongue so her taxi driving father would like me, and I learned to make pakora so her housewife mother would love me. I painted her room myself. I was willing to convert to Islam, for Christ's sake. We had a song that was ours, and a flower that was ours, and a restaurant that was ours. I fucked it all up. When the time came for her to go to college, I came to her with one of the most vulnerable statements I could open a conversation with -- Her leaving was the worst thing that had ever happened to me, and I wanted to kill myself. She heard this as "If you leave, I'm killing myself", and rightfully blocked me.

We were together for a little over seven months. I didn't so much as see a tit, which sounds crude, but is really something to think about when you're studying the actions of a fifteen year old boy. This was because she didn't want to, so I didn't push. I mean, I did, but not in that way. She'd only tongue me when I took her on nice dates. She'd only let me squeeze her ass when I stole things for her. The most expensive thing I ever took for her was a three hundred dollar aquarium filter. I put it in my bag and walked out like it was nothing. She clapped and threw her arms around my neck. I would do more than take something from a pet store if I could ever feel that again. I do a litmus test of sorts with every girlfriend I've ever had since her, questioning if I'd dump them if she came back into my life. The answer is always yes.
I can still picture her face perfectly. Sometimes, in the dead of the night when I'm very sad, tired, drunk, or all three, I close my eyes and picture her face. I can see the contour of her nose, and the divet in her lips, and the hazel green in her eyes. I can see the curve of her jaw with complete clarity, and the shadow in her face where her cheekbone meets her skin. Every year, this reconstruction takes a little longer. When I can perfectly imagine her face, when I've put all the pieces together, I close my eyes and I reach out one hand and I touch her hair. I feel out her face in the darkness like a blind man. It would be funny if it weren't true. I reach out and I feel her face, exactly as it once was, smiling at mine.

Then I open my eyes, and it is still dark. And I am still alone.