Nothing Happened

We leaned against the side of the movie house, half-drunk in our youth, sharing a cigarette and talking about nothing. He told me he was into guys too, and I said it was cool. So he kissed me.

And then: nothing happened.

We sat in a circle, drinking indiscriminately, spinning an empty bottle, and I kissed everyone but him. Until finally he caught on and grabbed my face.

And then: nothing happened.

We listened to jazz late into the night, the morning calling. The only time we ever really talked. I had to buy plasters for my knees. I had to cry in a bathroom stall.

And then: nothing happened.

We made plans to share a life. Teaching, making, cooking, being. A natural pool. A natural life.

And then:

Absolutely. Nothing. Happened.

Over and over again: I failed.

I wrung my hands. I died.

And then: you.

I’m alive.

And nothing happened.

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