Jenna Ribbing
You can ‘land’ or ‘end up’ — I’ll begin by being very clear.
I. I’d rather not be here for this. No, you’re not excused.
II. There I was, working the counter at a rundown record store on some forsaken corner in Brooklyn, and my boss comes in and tells me there’s this magician outside, dressed head to toe in green and gold velvet, hawking mix tapes on the sidewalk and blowing giant soapy bubbles at all the passing pedestrians. I can’t even call it love at first sight, because that’s all it took, that’s what it was, and what happened later doesn’t matter.
III. You belonged to me before anyone else, and I think that should mean something, I think that should afford me the chance to break the bones of every arm reaching out to take you from me.
IV. You know what’s not right? Waking up in the backseat when you fell asleep in the front.
V. It’s not so much exactly what you are, but how what you do is making you what you are. And who’s to say that would be any different? I’m not good at this. Point is…you’re a wreck. I appreciate it. Carry on.
VI. What’s the adage again? Three things that cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and an opinion.
VII. I’ve no idea why I’m surprised. My conception of marriage was pessimistically realistic. I guess I thought that would be enough. I guess I thought going without was tantamount to not wanting it — that explosive, grain-fed diet of lethal romance nonsense. Don’t get me wrong, you enjoyed my brain. You just needed to have a bit more fun. Deep down, I probably do too.
VIII. Why didn’t you stop me, you ask, and now I also feel guilty, and also feel accountable, for something having nothing to do with me, and I hate it, and it’s unfair, but…I should have stopped you. Of course. Why didn’t I stop you?
IX. Let’s not raid the medicine cabinet for a belly ache, I said…once. It was appendicitis. You required surgery. I never lived it down. And evidently, we’re still talking about it.
X. I shouldn’t have pushed, but you shouldn’t have pushed back. You always seek to thicken the plot by doing something ill-considered. I could plow semi-trucks through your blind spot. The amount of responsibility you stuff into your planters makes me sick, you groaned. I’m trying to find a better way.
XI. You, my worried child, my freckled misadventure, my tourist trap. You, a skeleton terribly restless.
XII. …
XIII. …
XIV. It’s such a swamp, and thank god, because I don’t know a thing about boats.