text: "God I hate myself right now" I muttered as I pulled up to the complex and did a quick search of the parking lot. "Seriously, what the fuck Zack? What could you possibly hope to get out of this?" There was no red car, so I pulled out and crept along to the next apartment complex. It was the middle of the day, but this area of the city was surprisingly empty and dilapidated. Still, I was all nerves, worried that someone might see me. There was a sick, twisted energy exuding from my stomach that kept my hands and face shivering. Despite that and despite the sheer stupidity of what I was trying to do, I kept driving. I didn't know what else to do. I wanted something, *anything* from this relationship, even if it was just heart rending jealousy. "Fuck, this complex is shittier than the last. He's really taking the starving artist ideal to heart, huh?" As I began to circle the lot looking for the red sedan, I started reminiscing about how I'd gotten to this point. I suppose it began seven years ago when I first met her, but that's too far gone. Too many other events and changes stem from that meeting. Instead my mind skipped forward a few years to the first of several painful conversations that we'd have. I guess that's where the jealousy really began. "So you remember that guy who asked me out last week?" she asked me. "Which one? You can't expect me to honestly keep up with your dating life." "Derek! The hot one! He's different from all the others. Remember, he tried to show you how to do a karate kick?" "Ohhhh, that fuckwad. Yeah, what about him?" I was hopelessly in love with this girl, so I couldn't help but let some hostility sink into my words. "He's not a fuckwad. He's actually really nice. Anyways, I went over to his house last night and we made out for like 4 hours. It was *heaven*." "Oh god, here we go again. You go through these guys like candy. Just don't let yourself get hurt, okay?" This must have been the 7th fling she'd had since she'd broken up with her fiance. That was a month ago and I could tell she was coping with meaningless sex, but who was I to say anything? I didn't know the first thing about romance or how to heal a broken heart. I just wanted her to be mine. "I won't get hurt. Derek's different. He's actually happy, unlike everyone else I've dated. And he really likes me. I think this one might last," she chirped. "You've only known him for four hours! And I doubt you guys said much during that time. Whatever. Do what you feel. Wanna grab some lunch?" And that was only the beginning of it. Over the next few weeks, she recounted to me in sordid detail every progressing stage of their carnal relationship. I listened with a ravenously morbid curiosity. I'd never had sex, or even kissed anyone. All I knew of love came from Pornhub, so the things she told me I couldn't help but be fascinated by. And that fascination mixed with a growing jealousy that made me sleepless and gaunt. I was missing classes, blowing off my family and friends in a surprisingly futile attempt to deal with new feelings. In retrospect, I'm glad nobody staged an intervention. I probably would have admitted to a heroin addiction rather than the truth. There! I'd found her car! That meant she was here, with him, right now. I had no idea what to do. I wasn't actually planning on finding her. I figured I would just drive around aimlessly and commiserate over the past until there was nothing else to do. My thoughts were racing like children. They were eager, misguided and stumbling into each other constantly. Should I go up and try to find his apartment? Should I wait by her car? Should I wait till they're done and go in angrily? As I sat there trying to decide on a course of action, my mind flitted to another memory, more recent than the last. "Will you come to dinner with us? Derek really wants to meet you." read the text I'd just gotten. Derek and her were going to restaurants and movies now. This was the closest I'd even seen her get to one of her fuckbuddies. "Fuck you. Why would you even ask that?" ...is what I should have written instead of the cordial confirmation I meekly sent back. Regretting my passivity, I began to get ready. If I was going to be forced to hang out with Derek, the least I could do was look better than him. I shaved, did my hair and wore a suit. Looking at my reflection in the mirror actually made me smile in spite of everything. I looked like a cross between a Gap commercial and a 2nd rate celebrity. God damn, but I was handsome. Too bad it never got me what I wanted. So I drove over to some shitty hookah bar on the other side of town and prepared to mandolin my heart. When I got there, they were sitting next to each other and giggling conspiratorially. I immediately imagined her blowing him on the car ride over. "Hey! How are you guys?! Sorry I'm late. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get a prostitute to leave your house." I said as I sat down. "Haha, what? Since when do you hire prostitutes?" she asked me. "Oh, I don't. Other people hire them for me. I just inspire excessive gratitude in my friends and unfortunately, many of them don't know how to express it," I replied. Awkward over confidence was my go-to card when I felt uncomfortable. "Oh, I'm sorry. You must be Derek. I'm Zack, with a K. It's nice to finally meet you." "Hi, it's good to meet you too. I've heard so much about you," he replied. "Is that really true about the prostitutes?" "Haha, no. I just make up stories sometimes. I find it makes life a little more interesting. Most days are dull, you know? You have to interject something into them." We then proceeded to spend an entire evening together. After the hookah bar, I took them to a local art gallery and showed off some of my favorite pieces from the Postmodern period. I didn't know the first thing about art, but was great at bullshit like that. They had a good time, I think. I certainly didn't, but I don't think I let it show. I'd gotten pretty good at that over the years. I'd had no other choice if I was determined to keep up my charade. I'd finally gotten out of the car. I'd been pacing back and forth from my Corolla to the stairs. I didn't even know what room they were in. Did they have the blinds open? Were they watching me right now in confusion? Was I going to have security called on me? I was an utter mess of anger, frustration, and arousal. And I couldn't justify any of it. But like a gear, I was being inexorably forced forward bit by piecemeal bit. I made a quick round of the first floor and saw no one resembling my obsessions. So with a deep and violent shaking, I began to climb to stairs onto the second floor. My mind was filled with nipples, fluids and positions I'd gleaned from other people's ecstasy. Somehow I made it to the second floor and eagerly began to make my search but as soon as I turned a the next corner, there was no need - I'd found my sickening goal. There was bile in my throat and I dry heaved a couple of times. Despite the balmy weather, I was still shivering as if I'd just been taken off of an analgesic. They were fucking. The blinds were open. I furtively watched till the end. They were doing it doggy style and facing away from the landing I was on. But even if I had been right next to the window I doubt they could have been bothered from the transcendent ecstasy they were in. I imagined that I could hear their moans from where I was standing and feel the sweat that drenched their bodies in my pits. It was revolting and sensuous. I wanted to record it or run. Part of me was ecstatic at finally seeing her do the things she always talked about. Part of me murderously screamed out of my skin that it should be ***me***. I wish I could say that something definitive happened next - that they saw me, that I barged in angrily making baseless demands, that I shattered the window and let my violent tendencies carry the day. Anything at all, but the truth would be a fitting end to this lukewarm spill of a tale. But life isn't like that. We don't get endings, beginnings or even events that follow logically. No, life is a senseless miasma of unrelated, unpurposed events that hurtle forward through the threads of our lives ripping apart our notions of tenderness to simply arrive nowhere. There are no categories, there is no connection or distinction between events. It is what it is, and what it is resists explanation. So I turned around, with the images seared into my mind, and walked down the stairs, away from that fucking complex, and went home.