Something seemed off about her description of her love. I didn't seem to be involved. She loved the way I treated her and the way my loving her made her feel. But did she love me? Not the me who listened or shopped or was nice to her dog, but the me who watched baseball games and loved to read and knew obscure Monty Python quotes by heart. The me who wished he could play guitar and wanted to write and cried at wussy French films. The me who existed whether she was there to see it or not.

She fell in love with someone because he loved her. So who was I to her? Why did she care if I moved on? I was easily replaced. My job requirements were not hard to fill. But maybe she and I had the same fears. Holding out for more took a lot of courage. Settling was so much easier on the stomach. So why wasn't I settling?

I prop myself up on one elbow and look at her sleeping face. I know what I'm supposed to feel. She looks like an angel, peaceful and still. I should be awash in a wave of love and contentment. That's how love works. But that's not what I feel. Watching her sleep, I feel empty. Restless. Like I'm staying in a friend's spare bedroom a few days longer than I should. I feel out of place. I try to imagine myself in thirty years, gazing down at this same face. How would I feel then? With a start I realize how angry I would be. Not sad, not lost, but angry.

Booty Nomad
- Scott Mebus