“The Perpetuity of My Fucked-Up Love Life” by Zachary Johnson

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I ate my first lemon, just now, pressured by the lady I sit with, discussing T.S. Eliot, G.K. Chesterton, and C.S. Lewis, in front of Common Grounds, at the very edge of Maxwell Street, as SUV operators zip along their merry one-way home from dining-out in Chevy Chase. I’m a little afraid of the interaction acidic juices might have inside my stomach, but go ahead for the hell of it. Wow, for once I don’t feel so weird, she says as I join her to ingest the sour citrus fruit, trying not to pucker, lemons are just one of the random things I eat, trying to cleanse my liver.—Oh. Do you drink a lot?—No, I don’t now. I guess I’m just worried about my health.—Makes sense, and this lemon’s not bad, really. I mean, it’s sour as fuck, but what does one expect?—Yeah.—So have you read The Everlasting Man? And our chat continues along semi-pretentious lines, except we are both genuinely excited to be talking to someone who took time in high-school to read a lot of the same things, and not trash like Hunger Games, we both agree, (neither of us having read), it’s stupid: My roommate keeps trying to get me to read that crap.—Yeah, my ex-girlfriend was the same, swore it was fantastic. My point of view is that life’s too short to waste on pop-fiction.—Couldn’t agree more, she replies, sweetly, with, I think, a touch of yearning. Context: she approached me two nights ago while I was writing in this coffee shop, having seen me last month at the Maurice Manning reading in Morris Books where we both wept (as mutually disclosed) when the poet himself wept, reading a his own poem, addressed to his father, who, being well-along in years, was present in the room; she approached me, having recently moved from Mississippi, to ask about other literary events in Lexington. Perfect. I played it down like no big deal. (Because I happen to know everything going on)–Holler this Wednesday and LexPoMo finale Sunday, etc. Then, that same night I hooked her into a talk about something stirring, A Hundred Years of Solitude. So you can see, that, as I sat there writing and pursuing nothing: she approached me. That was two nights ago. And tonight we both happen to be here again, sitting at the same table, outside, talking. Concurrently, my ex-girlfriend, who can’t let go, is texting me, like, WTF?; Why won’t you answer your phone?; You’re probably with some other chick; You fucking DOUCHBAG, and similar stuff, which I’m ignoring because we broke up two weeks ago and she is only mad, I know, because, when she asked me to come stay over, I said no. So the conversation’s going well but I’m distracted. Then ex-GF starts messaging on FB too, which lights up my iPod, lying on the table, though I don’t realize for a minute, and when I do I’m unsure if book-friend has seen the incriminating-seeming messages like, Hello?; I texted you seven times; You are probably with some hot woman? When I notice the new messages, I less-than-casually flip the iPod over. (To be fair: I’ve slept over there once or three times since the official split, two weeks ago, which, I’m aware, doesn’t exactly facilitate her ability to move-on without expectations). It’s starting to rain lightly. Present company is soft-skinned, glistening from the ten-o’clock-summer-weeknight-glow. I can’t think about her, all of me knows. More context: I was with my-most-recent for less than two months, directly following a relationship with an artist of two years, more-or-less directly following a marriage of eight months, to a classics major with minors in philosophy and political science: tumbling forward into an openness towards finally being alone, and knowing it’s the one-reasonable-option for me at this time, and: she approaches me. All I am doing is being friendly. Just yakking about nerdy stuff. I invite her to come to Holler out of politeness. To be clear, any intention of leaning lightly into her thigh, on the back deck at Al’s, after two or four PBR’s, would be ridiculous.