Grass

The grass was extremely itchy that day; I remember it vividly, as much as I’d like to forget. You always said you wanted to watch the sunset from Love Circle, and I always told you it wouldn’t be as pretty as you thought, because of the barbed wire and the Rich Man’s house that distracted from all traces of modesty. And yet you begged, claiming that Chicago didn’t have hills, so I obliged and followed you up the slope, begging you to slow down because I was fragile and soft and couldn’t be bothered with such frivolousness. We arrived two hours before the actual sunset, overcorrecting the difference between time zones, because you were afraid that we’d miss it, and as you sat patiently like a dog waiting for the sun to rise so he could take his master for a walk, I tried to decide the easiest way to break your heart. The grass itched my thighs and I knew that nothing could be so easy, because your skin was made of porcelain, pasty and fragile.
No amount of poetry and nights spent making pro-con lists could change my mind, and even though your eyes were so green, I couldn’t force myself to love you. You loved me unconditionally, however, and it killed me to watch you become gradually more attached to something as temporary as myself. Our relationship was a fruit fly, a 30-day extravaganza that buzzed furiously, and when you started to talk of the future, I became uncomfortable. You asked what we were going to do when we went to college, and even talked of making plans together as I fidgeted with my split ends. You were awkward, and couldn’t take a hint, even when I blatantly ignored you and then internally spat furious words at your ignorance.
When the grass gave you allergies, it reminded me of how your face would look when everything was over: swollen, puffy eyes, red, tender nose, and hateful pink cheeks. In Chicago, you said, there wasn’t grass yet; the snow had melted, but the ground was all dirt and cement. You cursed utilitarian Chicago, saying your heart and soul belonged here in Nashville with me, and that you wanted to move. The more words came out of your mouth, the more uneasy I became. I was too young, and you were like an old man in a gangly pubescent body. You craved commitment when I wanted nothing more than to push the boundaries of obligations and sexuality. At one point, I had enjoyed your company, when everything was new and clean and untainted by your static cling.
You loved the grass, even though it made you cough and sniffle. I hated the grass because even though it made you cough and sniffle, you loved it unconditionally.