(Vanessa)

Could He Be Less Romantic?

I guess it could be worse:

a tool set

or a book about

war atrocities.

I’m not materialistic,

but a water bottle

with my name on it?

And it makes me feel stupid

for always drinking

from his—

like it annoys him

every time I do that

when I thought

the gesture was

our little connection,

a welcome way

around his idiotic

no-contact rule.

I have to wonder

if he loves me

as much

as I love him.

I drive him home.

No time for a detour.

“See you after dinner?”

(We have a plan: ditch the holly-

and-the-ivy stuff,

later head down to Mono Cove.)

                                        “No. Family crap.

                                        My mom says I have to

                                        stay home.”

It may be true

but she let him come over

after dinner last year.

He doesn’t look me

in the eye.

“Really.”

It’s not a question.

                          “Really,” he says.

                          The statement is firm.

“Pick you up tomorrow?”

                          “Maybe. I’ll call.”

“Is something wrong?”

I ask. Stomach curling.

Was I bitchier about

the present than I thought?

                          “No—I just have to go.”

He leans over

kisses me so fast

I hardly feel it,

then gets out

and practically runs

up the path to his house.

Merry f’ing Christmas.