The Reason

Hey Fiona.

Remember me? Probably not. Women can be just as bad as men! LOL! I thought I’d hear from ya. What’s the deal young lady? Message me back if you ever remember who the hell I am!


I met you at a punk show in New Haven. That night, my best friend met the man she would marry. I’d gone to the show hoping to run into a boy I’d been having sex with, but he didn’t show up. You and I met at the bar. You looked vaguely familiar to me, and were. It turned out I’d known of you during my high school hang out in New Haven days; we’d had mutual friends, though you and I had never talked. A tall, well-dressed man in khaki pants and a button-down shirt, you looked like you could have been a graduate  student a Yale. That you were African-American was an added appeal. We were sitting next to each other, sharing banter between barstools; it really doesn’t take much to get me drunk. The band we both wanted to see started playing, and because we could no longer hear each other, we started passing notes in the small green notebook I kept in my bag. I still have the notebook; here is some of what we wrote:

Me: You look like this guy named Pierre who I knew when I was in high school. I used to skip school and come to New Haven all the time.

You: Pierre the pro- skateboarder? He’s my cousin. People always say that we look alike.

Me: Seriously? The friend I’m here with used to go out with him. Swear on your mom.

You: My mom’s dead.

Me: My dad’s dead.

You: Shut up and come outside and have a cigarette with me.

After the band finished playing, there was another band that neither one of us wanted to see, so we went outside. I was fairly drunk, and we began to kiss. We were standing on a dimly-lit street corner a few blocks from Yale; the street was completely empty, except for us. I was upfront with you. At the end of the night, I would be going home alone to my small shoreline town; you said it was your plan all along to return by yourself to your apartment in the city. We kissed some more— a nice kiss, the lot of them, on a revelrous night of music and drinking and making the acquaintance of a stranger with a familiar face. You asked me to send you a friend request over Facebook, and I typed your number into my phone. Soon, the show was over, and my friend was outside, getting ready to leave and exchanging phone numbers with the man who would become her husband. I leaned towards you to kiss you goodbye, and you reached up between my legs—I was wearing a short, form- fitting American Apparel dress, remember, I’d gone to the show hoping to cross paths with the boy I’d been fucking, and had dressed in a way I hoped would turn his head—and jammed three coarse, bone-dry fingers into my vagina. I could feel your nails; you had to scratch your way in. It was so unexpected, standing there, on the street corner, our backs to my friend and her future husband, what came to my mind was the greed of you. Unable to settle for what had been our encounter—passed notes at a bar, kissing on a deserted, cinematically lit street— you had to have more, at least as much as the dress I’d worn for another person would make it easy for you to take. It all happened so fast, and every thing I’d liked about you over the course of the evening was gone. I was no longer interested in seeing your band play in a few weeks. I no longer thought you were smart, or even funny.  I no longer had any interest in ever seeing you again at all. I was drunk, my reflexes slow, but I’d like to believe my body spat you back out.

So, to answer your question, the one you sent me over Facebook this morning, this is why you never heard from me again.  I thought you could tell by the way my body stiffened. I thought you could tell by the way I pushed you away.

By: Fiona Helmsley, Contributor

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