By: IO

What’s his name? It started with a J… or was it G? A hard “guh” sound or the lazy tongued “juh” sound? We dated for a few months, until I started screening his calls, muting the ringer to continue watching some sitcom on Netflix. It doesn’t matter. He was just the longest romantic relationship I’ve ever had. He doesn’t matter. 

What was his name, again? Something generic and biblical. We hung out in college, exchanging “dtf” text messages on nights our roommates were out. Not even small talk was exchanged during our goal-orientated encounters. Outside of the worn out dorm rooms, I don’t know I would have recognized him in daylight. It doesn’t matter. He was just a body I used. He doesn’t matter.

What was he called? A mutual friend introduced us. We met and fucked on the same night. It was planned, a way to control my first sexual encounter, to overwrite the assault from the year before. We went out in a group to an Ethiopian restaurant, another first. By the time we made it to bed, I was full, drunk, and high enough to dissociate. It doesn’t matter. He was just a means to an end. He doesn’t matter. 

But that Ethiopian food. I’ll never forget that pizza-sized injera covered in lamb tibs and red lentils. I’ll remember that always.