Everyone’s Favorite Kinda Guy
Short Story — About sitcom tropes. Meaning of Joy. And an all-or-nothing kinda guy.
Sometimes…
I am “everyone’s favorite” kinda guy
Sometimes…
I wake up and the dishes arn’t done and it doesn’t feel like the end of the world. Sometimes it does.
(I am an “easy going” kinda guy)
Sometimes I walk into the kitchen without turning any lights on and I look towards the coffee maker. I don’t make any coffee. I don’t want to make coffee. I do want it though. Just the way she used to make it. Everyday. Just for me.
(I am an “all-or-nothing” kinda guy)
Sometimes I don’t wear any pants and I dance around the bedroom and I think “Oh No! Am I that guy?” Then I hear her giggle, the way she used to, when she was about to make a butt joke. And I laugh, thinking what a sitcom trope we once were.
(I am a “best friends forever” kinda guy)
I like this. The routine and the not always having to keeping it part. I like breaking my patterns and then crying about it when it goes wrong. I remember she used to cry even when things went right. I still wonder why? Sometimes, I wish she would do that for me still. Sometimes I wonder, if I had asked, would she have kissed me goodbye.
(I am a “soulmates” kinda guy)
There’s a half empty bottle of wine on the counter and I can’t remember if it’s been there for three days or six. No one will know if I drink it now. No one will know if I pour it down the drain. No one will know if I cried last night, or this morning, or in the middle of sending a work email. No one will know if I’m dancing. Or laughing. Or breaking. Or waiting.
And I like that.
I tell myself I like that. No one tells me to be quieter. Or to listen. Or to change the song. No one asks me to play a song for them. No one asks me what the lyrics mean. I tell myself I like that.
(I am a “lone-wolf” kinda guy)
Sometimes, this feels like my corner of the universe. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes somethings seem anti-climactic. Half-done. Or just waiting for a re-run. Milestones come and go and there is no one to celebrate them. To celebrate me. Sometimes that feels like a superpower, this ability to be alone. To be fine. Sometimes, it’s a curse that I wish someone, anyone, would just lift off of my shoulders so I can breathe again. So I can be small and fragile and breakable. But I like it even then. I tell myself I like that.
(I am a “self-made” kinda guy)
She used to be so black and white. Always drawing such a hard line between right and wrong. Between good and bad. And I used to hate her for that. I used to think her naive. “Nothing lasts forever”, I would say. And she used to laugh and say, “Someday, something will.” Sometimes, I wonder if she is still able to see my cracks.
(I am a “deep and sensitive” kinda guy)
Here I am now… Everything is beautiful, everything is perfect, everything is still. Lifeless. Quiet. Still. I have everything I ever wanted. And I am sitting here, alone, waiting for joy.
(I am a “boy next door” kinda guy)
Sometimes, I wish she could tell me if what I have done is right or wrong. I wish she could tell me if I am good or bad. Sometimes, I wish I could tell her I’m still the same guy. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish she would tell me…that I am a good man.
Sometimes.
…
