Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Seventeen years means you listen to a lot of Bon Iver, mainly because he isn’t Ray LaMontagne.
Bon, the non-Ray. Bon, the one you did not share together. Bon, the one you did not discover on the term ending paper she submitted for credit to the professor she was fucking.
Seventeen years means he laughs in your face when you ask for a pound of the fresh coffee he roasts in the back yard—all hippie-granola-esque—on the commercial roaster he purchased with your student loan money. The same coffee he gives to garner accolades from the band teacher.
Seventeen years means he does not shed a single tear in your presence as things fall apart and the center is blown out.
Seventeen years means he keeps the Digital SLR—the one he gave you for Christmas—the same one that everyone oohs and ahhs over—the one he carries so often people think it part of his identity. The same camera that has transformed itself into yet another torture tool, when the old pain seeps in—just like the promised bed that never showed up. You thought you were over the pain of the fake gifts. But the hero worship of his photos cuts along the scar tissue.
Seventeen years means as you crumple into a heap and grovel for money when you can’t pay rent, he oh-so-graciously hands you two onions for dinner and sends you away from the home you must now knock to enter.