I hope that reading my writing makes you feel like I've just given you a hug. If it doesn't, e-mail me, and I'll have to give you one in person.

This is for the Rec Writer’s Club subject “All of This Has Happened Before,” and borrows structure from Jonathan Safran Foer’s short story, “Here We Aren’t, So Quickly.”

You kissed me in July on a set of flannel snowman sheets. My hair was wet from the swimming pool. Your mom was downstairs, drunk at 2pm. I thought, “This is just like kissing a window.” I told one person and you told everyone.

You kissed me in school when we were supposed to be in class. We were never in class. When the bell rang I wasn’t relieved, just nervous. I kissed you in my Dad’s car. The cops were polite when they caught us with our clothes half off. They promised not to tell. We made promises just to break them. You kissed me on your bed while our snow boots pooled water in the foyer. I thought I loved you but I was 17. Every day was Casimir Pulaski Day. You smelled like Dove soap. We were always getting caught, but never minding.

You kissed me on my dorm room bed during an “Arrested Development” marathon. Your tongue was sluggish. My hands moved fast. We ate pancakes in a diner in Koreatown. I hated when you put your feet up on my parents’ coffee table and you hated that I hated it. We went to the New York Public Library to see the “On the Road” scroll. We went to see the tree at Rockefeller Center. We ate egg sandwiches in London. You kissed me on the subway. I kissed you on the underground. You drank too much and I worried. We took the backroads in Virginia, we sped through Washington DC. We got lost on the freeway and you screamed at me and tossed the directions out the window. You liked when I touched your hair. It reminded you of being a kid. I baked you muffins. We stood in my driveway at sunset. We wrote each other poetry. Into your neck I spoke three words: I love you. Into my hair you ran your fingers. I learned then that just because you love someone doesn’t mean they love you back.

You kissed me on election night. A French girl kept shouting, “Il a gagné, il a gagné!” I kissed you in a restaurant in Montmartre. You touched me in a taxi. You touched me in a club on Rue Oberkompf. All we did was kiss. You went to Geneva for Thanksgiving. You left for the Sudan. In New York, on a fire escape, I realized I had changed.

You kissed me in my apartment on 13th street. I had to stand on tip toes. I took you to the Empire State building. I took you to Battery City. We kissed in a hotel in Chelsea. We kissed in Central Park. You had workman’s hands. I wanted to move you, wanted to move for you. We got drunk in the afternoon on West Broadway and watched the Kentucky Derby on a dingy bar TV. We stretched our legs on Fifth Avenue. You were here, but also somewhere else. We could never get the timing right.

I said, “I want to kiss you but I’m scared.” You bent my neck back and it was done. You showed up on my doorstep in the middle of a snowstorm, cradling icy roses. I touched you on the A train. We fought over operating systems and I locked myself in your bathroom. You brought me gifts back from San Francisco. Every night I fell asleep in your company t-shirt. Our bodies forgot how to exist without each other. We loved our cats like children. You didn’t want children but I was always smiling at babies. My joy scared you but I refused to apologize for it. I told my family you’d be there at Easter. We went to the Cloisters and stared at the Hudson. It was always so cold. You told me you loved me and then, a week later, you told me you loved her. I knew then for the first time what it was like to really want to punch someone. I screamed at you and sobbed. You held your face in your hands like a broken thing. I couldn’t stop asking why. I could never stop asking why. I wanted you to hug me but you were the reason I needed a hug.

I slept for four days and didn’t eat for two weeks. You stayed in your apartment, fridge full of fruit I’d brought you. I left notes for strangers in bookstores. I went to the same parties with the same people. On rooftops I could see for miles. I was so alone. I kissed someone I didn’t love. You moved to San Francisco. I kept quietly crying in the bathroom at work. I drank too much. New York in Spring is a rebirth. I was reborn without you. I cried on the Brooklyn Bridge and put all of my books in a box and moved to San Francisco.

I have changed, but it’s how little I’ve changed that scares me. My parents divorced, remarried, had babies. I lost my virginity at sunset on a baseball field. My sister went off to college. I cut my hair, then grew it long again. I let people touch me when I didn’t want them to. I crashed a car and watched my father cry on the TV news. I threw up on a train platform in Florence and in the airport in Barcelona. I kept stacking the odds against myself and breaking other people’s hearts. I kept running and running. I told people what they wanted to hear because it was just easier that way. I cried in public restrooms and subway cars and crowded airport terminals. I waited for things to settle but nothing ever did. I cut my finger slicing an avocado for you. I apologized for things that weren’t my fault. I carried secrets like anchors and lied for the hell of it. For a year I refused to brush my hair. People came suddenly and then left without warning. I fell in love over and over, courting recklessness like a person near death. We fought over the same things and bought the same groceries. Everything happened but nothing changed. You didn’t hold me but clung with a tightness so fierce I resigned. I’m sorry I threw away your books. I’m sorry I cried in the carriage house. When you told me you loved me on the bridge, I’m so sorry I said nothing at all.

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