The Wild Rumpus
Although I technically made up with the Hot Mess, things just aren’t the same. How can someone like the Hot Mess keep out the sadness? Girls like her can’t. By their very nature, a Hot Mess is kind of like a hurricane: unpredictable and ultimately destructive. I’m attracted to girls like the Hot Mess for the thrill, for the adventure, and for those brief moments of bliss that can only be compared to an eye of a storm.
I’m not even sure why I took the Hot Mess back. Perhaps because I know now I’m not her first choice (despite what she says) and I don’t feel guilty that she’s not mine either. I know that sounds terrible, like we’re using each other (and maybe we are on some level), but it’s more than that and I can’t quite explain it.
Last night Autumn was on my mind so I texted her before bed, “thank you for everything. Time with you felt like a wild rumpus.” I had just seen Where the Wild Things Are and my mind was still reeling with images of Max dancing in the forest with the monsters.
She called me about 20 minutes later. “Hey stranger,” she yawned. “A wild rumpus, huh?”
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“No, no. Just doing some homework, but I’m over it. So time with me felt like a wild rumpus?”
I felt self-conscious. Perhaps she thought I was being pervy? “Uhh–uhhh,” I choked. “I didn’t mean for it to sound perverted!”
“Hahaha,” she laughed warmly. “I know–it’s from Where the Wild Things Are. It’s one of my favorite children’s books. I just wanted to know why you thought so.”
I sat up in bed, as if it would help me think clearer. “Spending time with you…was just what I needed to get out of my head. I spend a lot of time in my head, you know, like weighed down by everything…”
“I can tell,” she added, almost empathetically. “Sometimes I’d look over at you and you looked like you were thinking about a hundred things at once.”
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t be. People that I’ve been with in the past, they usually think one thing at a time, if anything. They’re only worried about the moment, but I can tell you think further ahead. It makes you quite thoughtful and cute.” I tried so hard to imagine Autumn’s face, illuminated by a cheap desk lamp I associate with college students. I imagined her leaning in her chair, staring at the screensaver on her computer. I wanted her much closer. I wanted this conversation to take place in my messy apartment, in my tiny bed.
We talked until nearly 2am when I remembered the time difference. “Call me tomorrow,” she said between yawns. “If you get bored or whatever. No pressure.”
“I will,” I promised. “Good night.”
“G’night.”
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