Twenty-Something Year Old Journalist

I sometimes think about texting him. I won’t, but the thought still regularly passes my mind. 

What went wrong? Did I do something? I thought we had a good thing going. A consistently good thing going. 

I come over to his place, we take a walk, we order California Chicken Cafe, we get high and eat our California Chicken Cafe while watching whatever show or movie he was able to find on an illegal streaming service and then we have sex. 

It was routine, and it was nice. We didn’t text much during the days where we weren’t seeing each other, but I was fine with it. We had our routine and that was that. 

I often wondered if I wanted something more, if I could imagine something beyond our routine. I think the answer was no. 

Sure, I greatly enjoyed his company and our long walks together, but I think he had traits about him that I wouldn’t want in a partner. I always looked forward to our routine, though. 

I don’t think I shared much about myself with him. I found it hard to open up and felt like I lived an uneventful life, whether that is actually true or not. 

I’m honestly not sure how he felt about me. I thought we had a good thing going. Walking. Smoking. California Chicken Cafe. Sex. 

On a few occasions he presented other meal options. I think one was maybe a gyro place. I always declined. We had our routine. California Chicken Cafe was part of that routine. 

I think he might’ve had some sort of eating disorder. That made me sad for him. I used to have one too, but I never confided that in him. His comments about food and calories and working out made me uncomfortable, but we had our routine and I was happy with that. 

I remember I went on a trip. A trip to New York and to the state where he was born. I was looking forward to seeing him when I was back. I didn’t see him. He told me he couldn’t do it anymore. That it was nothing I did, but he just couldn’t do it anymore. 

The last time I saw him we didn’t have sex. He didn’t touch me and we didn’t kiss. I was confused and wanted to mention it when I saw him next, but I never saw him again. 

I suppose that’s a lie. Months later we were both at the same concert. I had secretly hoped to run into him. I was in line when he walked by me. I saw him, but he didn’t see me. I didn’t say a word. I never saw him again.

I want to know why our routine stopped working for him. I liked our routine and I wanted to keep it. He did not.

Every so often I eat California Chicken Cafe and think about our routine. I wonder if he ever does too.