This is what qualified as almost love:
He comes to meet my drunk ass and takes me to the forgotten housewarming party I’m cohosting with my roommates. Halfway there, I’m too fucked up to stand, collapse on a street corner and attempt to make snow angels in the rain. He waits as I try to drift out of consciousness and I hear him say to a random guy passing, “Hey man, do you have a pixie? Everyone should have a pixie.” I think he’s trying to offer me to the guy because he can be an asshole like that. But antagonizing me (intentional or not) gets me on my feet and we head to my new home.
We have a series of debauch adventures, mostly revolving around his trying to get me to like a girl enough for a threesome.
I know this isn’t love.
And yet, we’ve just had sex and made out in every room of an empty apartment, which feels romantic. I’m 19, feeling vulnerable in front of him and my eyes are pleading him to say he loves me.
If he says it, I’ll say it back because I think I need a secure something in my life.
And he’s mostly been there for me.
My hopeful eyes wait for him to say something.
He meets my gaze.
I’ll pay for your AIDS test.