It’s that part of summer where it’s almost fall and you can tell because people are on edge. they start to wear longer sleeves and they start drinking hot coffee again and they walk around differently, quicker, like they have somewhere to go, bundled under their jackets and scarves. the leisure of summer is far gone.
and now we are back in school. and you can’t talk to me because i’m not cool enough. i don’t wear the right clothes because my mom is too poor and my phone is at least a year behind. you thought it was cute a month ago but now it makes me another punchline. i see the way you look at me out of the corner of your eyes, when you think no one is looking, but i am. because i look at you all the time, for months you were the only person i talked to.
about everything. we talked about how weird the bling ring was and how the virgin suicides was an under appreciated new age classic. we laughed when we realized no one over twenty five ever got stoked about coldplay because even though they aren’t awful musicians it’s radio music for mostly moms.
three weeks ago we laid on the golf course, the only one in town, and let the sprinklers drench us but we didn’t care because it was ninety degrees at midnight and i had my first kiss in the middle of a summer heat wave behind a small town country club where semi-rich people pretended to be richer than they are. and then we even talked about that.
i showed you my new favorite bands and then made you a mixtape and my heart raced when i saw you had put it on your ipod. so we listened to modern baseball and the front bottoms and even a couple new fall out boy songs while i discovered that your little sister talked to cereal boxes in the morning and let you in on the fact that i had an illogical fear of sharks that made swimming in a body of water much larger than a pool a near impossibility.
i wore shorts and you wore shorter shorts and i burned and you tanned. my mom knows your name now and your mom knows mine. but i’m wearing pull over sweaters with eighties movie covers on them and you are wearing something someone famous wore on the cover of some magazine you never seemed to care about before.
and now i know why it’s called summer love. and i hate it. and i fucking hate grease.
Summer ends and you’ve burned me out. I am the human vhs. I can only be wound about so many times before I start to wear thin, burn out, and finally eject. We have played this game, done this dance, we could run down the list of metaphors for ‘been there done that.’ I’ve been a Facebook status, a hash tag, a social media science experiment but despite my brief cameos into your online presence I maintain my role as a background character mumbling peas and carrots into the white noise that is our relationship. I chase every empty text with a shot of fire water. I watch Midnight in Paris then Annie Hall then Scoop then Midnight in Paris again. I remind myself that I’ll put myself through it again at next Summers start and I decide now that next year I’ll run through Sofia Coppola’s filmography. At least then I have something to look forward to.