He isn’t you.
He’s my age. He texts me daily. He checks all the boxes. He’s kind enough. He’s intelligent. He’s respectful in the ways only a good Southern man should be. My family likes him.
I should be into him, but I’m not.
I don’t want this man. Not just because he’s milquetoast. Not just because he’ll respond “Well, actually..” every time we’re in a discussion.
I don’t want expensive dinners where I’m tucked into shapewear and heels for hours on end, or the promise of weekend trips to distant cities. I have no interest in a man who desires access to my body without attempting to understand my mind.
I don’t want him because he isn’t you.
Give me the evenings we spent huddled and whisper-snarking through movies, dissecting them afterwards over tacos. Hours-long walks capped by people watching and talking over coffee.
Drinking beer and laughing in my kitchen, while I cook for us the spicy things my roommate can’t stand. Bouquets of greens. Hand-painted pictures. Acts of service.
The lazy weekend afternoons with you holding court at a picnic table, as we all try to keep up with the current round of the game we’re playing. Your mischievous grin playing across your face as you sip your beer and lecture the table on your topic du jour.
I miss your calm. Your patience.
I miss you.
I wish you missed me too.