I look for Jessica all day. 

Down the hallway, in the streets, and between the bushes by that old yellow apartment complex. When she doesn’t respond to my texts, the bad thoughts come. 

“She’s probably drunk.” I think bitterly, then instantly CTRL-ALT-DELETE that notion to the best of my ability because if I want hope, I have to generate hope. 

I imagine her in the shower, only a few beers in, listening to our favorite Beatles songs. 

“I pleasure myself in the bathroom and think of you.” She said once. On her back with her eyes closed, smiling in pure bliss, pleasuring herself then. I watched her work. Her fingertips slid up and down the piercing. 

Next thing I knew, I held her hands together and pinned her beneath me. Her tits bounced. She gasped. And the next thing I knew after that, she was on top of me, sitting in my lap as I lay back. She rolled her ass hard into my crotch, each rotation hitting the spot – I told her my release was imminent. She had taken her hair down; it was so long, coarse, and calico. She swung it around sexily, and laughed. “Oh yeah?” Such a pretty voice. I held her hips down as she kept swiveling between my legs, and I called her “my tiny little thing.” 

But the sex stuff isn’t most of it.

Couldn’t be. 

It’s not the reason I’m always looking for you under things, behind the shower curtain, or in the closet. No, no. You and I are much more than that. 

But I admit it took time to even become real friends because the toxicity at the beginning was flooring: two destructive forces moving toward one another at dizzying speeds. At each other we hurled trysts in cheap hotels, cigarettes, and liquor, stalkerish calls, pleading crazy texts – followed by words of love and affirmation. 

[The thing about my life, as with my loves, is that everything trends extreme]. 

The emotions ran hot from the beginning. Following our initial hallway interactions, I sensed a wildness a notch above mine, and it gave me pause. “I don’t know about that woman down the hall,” I explained to my then-husband. 

But slowly and surely you worked me down. It didn’t take long for our brief encounters in the elevator to leave me shaking. 

One day – I tried to spend it minding my business, but couldn’t concentrate. We hadn’t hung out at that point, but I still missed your presence down to my bones. I had no choice but to buy a bottle so I could think less about you. That night, I wrote in my diary like a little girl: “When will Jess fully enter my life?” 

And when you entered, when you came – you did so in multiple ways, and I was there for it. You shook me all night long and during the day, too. 

I felt I’d do anything to be next to her. And if I’m honest: riding in her truck with the windows down, playing Dylan almost made me believe in God again. It made me feel like summer the way most people feel like summer. A season I’ve always hated, until now. Until her.

I love being her Miss Americana. Or is she my Miss Americana? Rust-red 90s pickup. With every turn, you hear the steel creak. The exhaust plumes are thick and bluish as they swirl up. Between my legs, my body responds to the visual of her working that stick shift without a thought. My woman, I think, as we drive to the convenience store – Lana Del Rey-style – gas station queens. The only thing that could’ve made it better would have been walking in barefoot. 

She buys more beer; I buy more iced tea. We use the smoothie machine in the corner and don’t make eye contact. But occasionally I get her to laugh. I love her little laugh. 

When I told her she snorts when she laughs, she was surprised. She rolled forward into the hardest one yet, flipping her ponytail over her head. “REALLY?” Her eyes glistened in amusement. I told her I loved it. I told her I loved that and her pretty green-grey eyes. The band around the green part is so thick it almost seems doubled. The kind of eyes that allow her to get away with anything. 

Fast forward. The night we made love was terrible and beautiful, as is life. But before we gave ourselves to each other, we frolicked amongst our people. At the gay bar, you did karaoke in your Ozzy t-shirt. You laughed a lot and stayed by my side. The bathroom was a single room, which we shared instead of taking turns. 

I was enamored. “Look at my girlfriend,” I said to the pink-haired bear tending bar, as I pointed to your cute ass across the room. 

Speaking of making things official, I asked you five times to be mine that night. You answered no to every inquiry but said, “one day soon.” I was annoyed and stunned – but you were on the

right track – a living, breathing pacemaker. The next day I thanked you for not saying yes. To this, you scrunched your nose and said the usual, “But I’m so excited to explore our connection.” 

But back to our very first night. 

After singing “Picture of You” and yapping with numerous strangers, we ended up at the Comfort Inn. 

We slammed each other onto those clean white sheets. I could barely believe anything. Is this real life? 

You kissed me like never before. 

In an instant, we were nude; in an instant, we were in the shower. The eye contact was unforgettable. You asked me to wet my hair so you could see my natural texture. “Your curls are one of the most beautiful things about you,” you said before kissing me again. 

One thing I keep remembering is your scent. Soft and gorgeous: all woman. Familiar. So, I indulged in you. 

Aftercare. Grabbing our belongings. Talk of the next morning, how we could return before check-out for the continental breakfast. Then we left the hotel and stepped outside. She held my hand under the moonlight – her quick little steps, the breeze in her auburn hair. 

Only a week later, a change came. When it did, it hit so hard that I died a little inside. I spent days drunk and grieving, using everything in my will not to knock on her door to scream at her, or throw myself in her arms.

The day in question, when shit hit the fan, was the day I got a new job. You beckoned minutes after I got the call. I was so elated I could pop: a job offer and a text from you in the middle of a Thursday afternoon almost proved too much for my nervous system. 

When you opened the door, you ran your hands down my back, my ass, my legs. You did it brazenly, indiscriminately. I was stunned. You’d never touched me like that before, aside from our night making love to the sound of Tears for Fears. 

You scrambled around your apartment. “I’m so embarrassed, I should have bought you flowers!” I told you no need – ice cream instead. 

Outside, you smoked three cigarettes as we sat in the dirt in front of a curb. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of me. You kept telling me how beautiful I was. I was so nervous and awkward that I couldn’t meet your eye. My heart pounded so hard I got vertigo. When we stood, for the first time, you grabbed my hand and fully interlaced our fingers. We walked like this for a while, and then at your truck, you opened my door like a real woman. 

We rolled up to Chevron, as we always do – cigarettes, beer, potato chips. Nothing of note happened between then and returning to the truck, but as you entered the lane, I noticed your eyes were far away. Paralyzed in thought and distant. I asked what you were thinking, and you said you were thinking about me and how excited you were for “our future”. So I swallowed my rising concern and rubbed your back as we mounted the hill. 

Back at our complex, where we were floormates, I went to change clothes and get some water. 

You were different when I returned. To look pretty for me, you’d put on black eyeshadow and lipstick in the time I was gone. But also, in my ten-minute absence, you’d gone out of range.

You asked me to sit beside you on the bed, where you rambled on. You were distant and impatient. Swimmy and incoherent. A little confused, too. You asked questions you’d already asked weeks, days, hours ago. I stopped the world to look at you, but you wouldn’t meet my eye. When I asked if you were alright, you dodged the question. 

I couldn’t take it, so I left to catch my breath. But in the flurry, I grabbed everything but my keys. Sweat pooling in my cleavage, I phoned to confirm I’d left them. 

Yep. 

When you met me in the hall to hand them over, I told you I was overheating as the panic attack took root. Instead of comfort, you flipped a switch. Metaphorical fangs bared, you told me, “Let’s put a pin in this day.” 

I had no choice but to agree. 

But in an attempt to even things out, you offered to call later to smoke Parliaments and make out like the dirty, feral women we are. 

You never called. But hell, I did. Again and again. Texts, too. Nothing. 

All the days passed, even the Fourth of July. 

It felt like forever and a day before I saw you again, outside of the Chevron, homeless people everywhere. All around us smelled of pee and chaos. We sat on a curb at midnight and shared our takes on what had happened. 

“Sometimes I close off,” you explained. 

I forgave you for what I didn’t know would be the first of a million times.

We patched it up, and before long, you returned to the you I was falling for. With your head on my shoulder, you reminded me how excited you were to be with me. Arizona, Nevada, all the things we’d do together, all the places we’d go: farmland, the casino, bingo night, my big brass bed. 

The closing ceremony of that night: “What’s up?” You asked, sidling up to me, running your hand along my leg. “Wanna kiss me?” You asked as you crawled into my lap. 

My mind simultaneously racing and placid, “Of course I do,” I said as I met you halfway [a pause before you put your tongue in my mouth]. 

“Cuuuuuuute.” You said upon withdrawal before taking another swig of a warm Coors Light. 

Late summer: your studio apartment. I wish you’d open a window sometimes. 

You put on a Netflix cooking show, and I lay down and batted my eyes. You tried to seem disinterested, but I felt you move closer, glance longer, somehow go from a T-shirt to a bra in the blink of an eye. 

Flash forward. 

You in grey leggings. I held the waistband like a bull rider. I got so loud and insane as you ground on me that I bit into a pillow, hoping the neighbors couldn’t hear. 

You observed me, hopeless beneath you, and taunted, “Yeah? Should I keep going?” What a ridiculous question. You rode me until I was through.

Afterwards. We put all the bedding back in the right places, and shared a hairbrush in your small, yellow bathroom. Meeting eyes in the cracked mirror. Later, you stickshifted that red truck all the way to our post-coital brunch. 

When we got back, we ate McDonald’s in silence, and you wouldn’t look at me. You went to the kitchen and started banging things around. 

When you rounded the corner, you held a measuring cup full of dark liquid. “I ran out of cups, so I had to use this.” 

“What was wrong with the cup the Coke came in?” 

“Well, I added whiskey.” You said guiltily, before returning to the kitchen to rinse your mouth. We made strained eye contact as you wiped your face on a cloth napkin. 

“Come here!” I said gruffly, as if disciplining an unruly pet. 

Ten years my senior, you obeyed my command in your own damn house. Head down, metaphorical tail tucked between your legs, you slid onto the bed. 

“Seriously? It’s not even noon.” 

“I’m so fuckin’ awkward. You make me nervous.” You looked sad and scared. “I mean, same. But I don’t have to drink over it.” 

You shook your lion’s mane. Your intense eyes were locked on mine, dancing. Then, a flash of vulnerability. “I just don’t want you to stop liking me.” 

I laughed, “That’s not possible, trust me. I’m obsessed with you.” 

“Please don’t leave me.” You pleaded and waited, looking deeply into me until I promised. And I kept my promise.

I uprooted almost everything for you and didn’t stop. 

My friends, family, ex-husband – all shaking their heads in disbelief at my self-harm. They saw you as a form of self-harm because of the drinking, your penchant for saying one thing and doing another, the way you tried to fist-fight the neighbor because you thought I liked her more, how you were making me crazy with a cocktail of L-words: lesbianism, limerence, love and lust. 

They were scared of how I was acting over you, how I was allegedly “giving myself to you mind, body, and soul” when apparently you weren’t deserving. 

So they delivered verbal blows padded by concern and love: 

You don’t want to be a step-mom. 

This isn’t in your character. 

This is fucked up. 

She’s clearly not good for you. 

You can’t imagine how badly this will end. 

I nodded and told them I’d cut it off, but I never did. I couldn’t quit you Brokeback Mountain-style. And honestly, I never wanted to. We couldn’t help falling in love like Elvis talked about. 

This experience of becoming your more-than-lover has been a crash course in ultimately making my own decisions. Not to say my chosen family are voiceless – I listen, but I must choose when to hear. 

And for the record, I want them to know I did hear some things. Namely, getting my shit together: water with electrolytes, no more nights out with you until 4 am., featuring our main man, Jim Beam. I joined a writers group, bought a new pickup truck, and furnished my studio apartment. I started eating again. I reclaimed myself and my spark, but I also kept a claim on you. And I don’t regret that. 

I’m okay with being one of the few who saw your greatness. Your patience and calm, your hyper-intelligence (so heightened it could be called gifted), your motherliness, humor, warmth, your unwavering loyalty. And other things like your beautiful hair, your petiteness, the way you say “all that jazz!” (like our favorite) Aileen Caroline Wuernos, used to. All your beautiful Jessica things, like your taste in music and being the best pool partner a girl could ask for. Also, you cook a filet mignon so lethal that the next time you do, I might propose. 

“I don’t want this moment to end,” I whine, anticipating returning to my apartment to do chores while obsessively thinking of you. 

You tell me you don’t want that either. 

“Can I have you one more time before I go?” 

“Of course.” You say, as we undress for the third time that afternoon. The lust is so crazy I’m dizzy even though we’re lying down. I kiss my favorite spot on your neck as you start making your sounds. 

“You make me wish we were boys sometimes,” I said, breathless. “I want to drive into you.” You balk at this. Tsk. “We don’t need to be boys. Forget that! We can make love like women.