LEAVE YOUR BOYFRIEND: a short story

“The Happy Donor”, Rene Magritte

They were in her bed watching tv on her ipad when a notification from Hinge popped up on the screen. Jason sent you a rose!

If she had pretended not to see it then he would have pretended not to see it too. Instead she paused the show and turned to him. Her face was still half flushed from fucking. Now she was starting to blush again. He couldn’t read her expression. I should tell you, I’ve been seeing other people.

Jason?

No. Well, I might see Jason, I don’t know. But different guys.

Rohan?

Rohan was a ML engineer at OpenAI. His apartment had four partially transparent paper lamps. You know, those lamps. What the fuck were they called again.. tatami? Tatami lamps?

Yeah, like Rohan, friends of friends.

Everybody was a friend of a friend. Everybody had known everyone for years. Everyone had joined the right team at the right time and gotten theirs. And what about him? He'd gotten a latte and spent an entire decade as if it were one long afternoon. Laptop open, staring out the window. He was 30. She was 31. Then they were 33. Her coworkers were getting married. Her other coworkers were freezing their eggs. She was still hot though. She was a local menace. She threw the word "love" around as if it were a football. Love you, she said, see you soon.

I think if you love me you should marry me, he thought.

She thought, I used to think being safe meant being alone. I used to think being known meant being judged. I used to think being choked, beat up, and spat on was the hottest way to have sex. I no longer think that. With you I feel my mind changing. With you I feel my blood changing. You send me short form video content and when I see your name appear on my home screen I smile, I begin to grin cartoonishly, it's so goofy but I can't help it, teeth and gums exposed and all. I want you in my kitchen. I wanna wash ur socks. I want to get really good at carpentry and and go out and cut up some logs and build a cabin for us to live in.

I just need six months, he thought.

Somehow in the dependency graph of his brain it didn't make sense that you could have a stable relationship before you had a stable career. She might pretend to be an nth wave feminist, but deep down she wanted a guy to take her out to Lazy Bear. She'd judge him, and she'd judge herself for judging him. Then she'd pull away, but politely, because that was who she was, that was how she lived. He didn't want her polite rejection. Just the thought made him want to drive a ballpoint pen into the plushy part of his palm. He told himself to stop thinking about it. Yes, you have to have your career sorted. You have to take care of your side of the bed.

As of Saturday evening, he's worked 81 hours, which is a decrease from last week, when he worked 94 hours. He's gained weight, and his nervous system is shot to pieces, but it feels so good to be needed. To be of use. The only downside is that he's got no free time. All he wants to do is sleep. He tells her that he's busy with work, which is the truth. She believes him, but that belief doesn't go all the way down to her stomach. Her head believes him, but her stomach is like: it's always me who texts first, then double texts, and it's always him who cancels. And now she wonders if she's misread the signals, if his feelings for her have changed, if she hasn't been coming on too strong. She feels a new modesty, a shyness. Now she wants to go in diagonally, to find out what's up, how much he likes her exactly. Which is how he finds himself listening to her talk about how she's screwing other dudes. Yeah, like Rohan, friends of friends.

She turns to look at him. You don't mind?

He doesn't look at her. He can't. He finds a spot on the ceiling and stares at it. This little blemish on the otherwise pale wall reminds him, absurdly, of a certain freckle on her naked back. You're a free woman, he says.

Surely she knows how he feels. Just because he doesn't get on his hands and knees and beg. She has a lot of romantic options, everyone knows that. Why do you have to see other people, he wants to say. Fucking you sideways has been the greatest joy of my life. Eating takeout sushi in Salesforce Park and walking home laughing and clutching your hand in the cold and scrolling twitter next to you in bed has been the greatest joy and peace and honor of my life.

Today is Thursday evening and her birthday is on Tuesday and her birthday party is on Tuesday night. Nothing super fancy, she says, just a few friends, which means 30 people. His plan is to get there early and help set up. She said no gifts but for the first time in his life he has money to burn. Should I get her a ring? Not an engagement ring, just a regular ring. His friends are like, no dude. What about a necklace? Hard to get right. Eventually he decides on a bracelet. It’s very thin, so she can wear it with her apple watch, and it’s studded with little diamonds that look like drops of clean water in the light. He spends a lot of time thinking about how to wrap the box, whether he should wrap it at all, whether he should write a card.

At 4pm on Tuesday afternoon he gets a ping from his boss asking if he’s around. He’s made a stupid mistake and it urgently needs to be fixed. In theory he could say no, but he’s still a new hire, and he’s already told his boss that he’s around. Besides, what would he say? That it’s his girlfriend’s birthday? She’s not his girlfriend. Imagine telling your boss: sorry, I gotta help my situationship set up a charcuterie board. Ok. He messages her saying that he’ll be a little late. She says “ok!!” but doesn’t message again.

Finally he pulls up, 3.5h later. He’s holding the navy jewelry box and running his thumb over the edges. He gets out of the Waymo and through the big sidewalk-facing window he can see inside her apartment with all the orange light. It looks warm inside. There are a bunch of leftovers, cups and stuff scattered around the table but only two people in the room. It’s her and one of their mutual friends. They’re leaning into each other. She’s sort of falling into his chest. His hand is on her ass. Her hair makes a curtain around his shoulder.

He turns around. The sun has just set and the evening is blue. It’s not dark yet but the buildings are losing their edges. He texts her some bullshit unapologetic semiapology and she texts back something polite but frosty and he responds by asking her how her week has been (?) and from there the conversation fizzles out. A few days later he sends her a few corny messages riffing on inside jokes they’ve previously made. She doesn’t bite. She doesn't ask him to come over again, and he doesn't ask why.

The next time he sees her is in the dairy section of the supermarket. She’s got her headphones in. There’s a sale on yogurt, 5/$5. She's trying to decide which flavors she'll like.

He sees her before she sees him. Part of him wants to scuttle away. But another part of him is just glad to see her. Hey. Hi.

She looks up at him. Oh, wow, hi. How are you.

He says, honestly I didn’t think you were going to take your earbuds out.

Really?

Yeah, I thought you were going to do a little half wave and then, like, gesture towards your phone as if you were on a call, even if you were only listening to a podcast or whatever.

She does a mock gasp. I would never.

You look good, she says.

He does look good. He looks tired but relaxed. He’s wearing a dark t-shirt made out of some heavy looking material, and cream-colored linen-y pants that look new. She smiles at him, again, sincerely. He knows she’s being extra smiley because she wants to show him that she’s not bitter, she doesn’t harbor any secret resentments, she’s genuinely glad to see him. Why is this, of all things, the unbearable thing?

I’m sorry, he says.

She pauses. What do you mean?

He makes a flopping motion with his wrists. He wishes… he doesn’t know what he wishes. I wish it had turned out different, he says lamely.

The chill of the freezer is giving her goosebumps. You disappeared, she says. Her voice is soft.

I texted you.

I mean before that. You didn’t come to my party.

He feels himself getting warm. He feels it in his cheeks and his neck. I did go. You were with that guy.

What guy?

The one you were cuddling.

Her hand clenches around the shopping basket.

Cuddling…?

Well, it’s awkward, but it looked like you guys were about to start making out.

What are you even… she trails off. I was having a horrible time. I kept checking my phone. A couple different people were comforting me. I might have hugged one of them, I don’t remember.

He feels like he’s being lit on fire. I just thought. Because you were seeing other people.

I wasn’t really. If you’d asked me not to see other people I wouldn’t have. I think I was waiting for that, in a way. And I didn’t have anything to do with anyone until ages after. Not that it matters now, but I didn’t.

It does matter.

He exhales. Maybe we could get dinner. And talk properly.

She nods and smiles. That’d be nice. Although, I don't know if you care, but I should probably mention, I do have a boyfriend.

He smiles, nods quickly. That’s good to know.

Probably he won’t have the courage to text her. And even if he does, it'll be too late. Probably it's already too late.

They stand there for a moment. She shifts her weight from foot to foot. The handles of her grocery cart are weighing in her hands.

Leave him, he says. Leave your boyfriend.

(Later, waiting for her text back, he would replay the scenario again and again in his brain. Why did he say that? What could have possibly possessed him to utter such a statement with such profound conviction?)

He was breathless, sweaty, hot with shame, but for once what drove him forward was stronger than shame, etiquette, intelligence, or fear.

---

Thanks to Andy Kong for reading and commenting on previous versions of this story. You can always reply or email me to comment on current versions of this story! (“What is this delicioustacos ripoff”)