That stops me, my lover—I haven’t
thought of Dylan as that since he left. Watch yourself,
James,my mind warns. I zip up my jumpsuit slowly, my fingers
numb. You don’t need to want him now. You were doing good,
weren’t you? You need to move on.
And how am I supposed to do that if he’s
calling me again?
But moving on isn’t turning off the backups
so we can talk freely. Moving on isn’t calling him baby—I
didn’t do that last night, did I? Moving on is forgetting the way
we were, the way he looked beneath my sheets first thing in the
morning, the way he would pull me back to the bed as I was getting
dressed and kiss my knee, my hand, anything he could reach without
having to get out from between the covers. “Come back here and love
me,” he’d say, and moving on isn’t thinking about that,
either, it doesn’t help now, he’s not here, is he? Is
he?
No, he’s not, Tony is, he’s waiting for me
and I’m still not sure why. As I pull on my boots, I ask, “What are