Page 9 of Texts From My Exes
Which is exactly why it might work.
Because I’m not known for being stupid.
I’m known for being calculating.
So why not give her what she wants?
The most viral story of all time.
A perfect ex… curated by the one she’s never truly seen.
Me.
Fuck it.
Clark Kent just decided to go full Superman.
May the comic gods be with me.
I think I’ll regret the text I sent, but I finish the day and go to sleep. Maybe I’ll regret the choice in the morning. I don’t. Instead I hyper fixate on everything. It’s been twenty-four hours since I offered to become someone I’m not.
Or maybe someone I always was—just buried under layers of hair, sarcasm, and a giant assed safety net.
Still no plan. No haircut. No reveal. Just me… refreshing her page like it might give me permission to be that guy, the other guy, not the one who lays back down on the ground and stares at the ceiling while someone else gets the girl, but the one who jumps up and shouts at the world that he has her.
My phone buzzes.
Harper
Emergency. Need you. Plz bring caffeine and your soul. I have nothing to give you, nothing left. Thy cup is empty. Thy is me. FILL ME UP YO.
That’s followed by seventeen skull emojis, a photo of a broken zipper, and what might be a crying selfie or a very aggressive sneeze.
I’m already grabbing my keys and smiling at her innuendo of filling her up. See? I’m the upstanding guy that doesn’t respond with something crass—doesn’t mean however, that my thoughts don’t get dirty really fast, now more than ever, I’m thinking I can do it and better than anyone else can.
She meets me at the door of her apartment a black dress and emotional ruin—-her words.
“The zipper betrayed me,” she said, arms pinned behind her like she’s been arrested by her own outfit and found guilty. “I think it was the boobs. It’s always the boobs.”
I managed a slow blink. “Um hi.” I shook my head at the boobs in question. “Stop constricting them, you’re hurting their feelings.”
“Stop staring at them.”
“Kind of hard not to and I’m not gay, sorry to disappoint, you have boobs, I have eyes, it’s simple math which by the way I’m remarkable at. It’s probably the seventh, you start in five days which means you’re bloated.” I cringed at my own words because that’s exactly what a gay best friend or girlfriend would say, I may as well have chopped off my own dick and asked where the Eunuchs stayed watch over the Kingdom.
“I haven’t eaten,” she continued ignoring my comment and spinning on her heel. She marched back inside, bypassing the tables and heading directly to the handicap bathroom. “I didn’tsleep. My hair is too shiny, which feels fake. And if I have to listen to one more audio about manifesting your dream relationship, I’m going to manifest afistthrough my phone and choke the next person out who says ‘hi’ too nicely. I know this is just a practice round to get the video feed right for when everyone votes on my TikTok page, but…it feels too real and if this is the amount of stress I have for the practice date…” She took a shuddering breath.
I followed her in, quietly handing her a coffee and a bag of peanut butter cookies, because, again, that time of the month is upon us and I’m not insane, give the woman the peanut butter so I can keep all my man parts in place.
She snatched them out of my hand. “You're my favorite.”
“You say that to your mailman.” I grumbled.
“Yeah but he delivers for Amazon.”
“Good point.”
She stopped in front of the mirror, tugging at the fabric. ”Help?”
