I pull over at MacArthur BART and he gives me the look. It tells me what a bitch I am, what a tease. I have become the woman I never wanted to be. I have hurt someone.
What is the use of unreciprocated affection? What purpose could this possibly serve in the grand scheme of life?
It’s not me. It’s you.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I am sorry. I’m sorry that I couldn’t feel more for this person in my passenger seat, this poet who’s put himself on a first-name basis with the greats. I’m sorry that a relationship came knocking and all I could do was run as if the door were on fire. I’m sorry in that selfish way, the kind that considers one’s own feelings first, foremost, and with finality.
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