When I think of one of my exes, some of my most vivid memories are of the sounds they made when I frustrated her, when I upset her, when I angered her.1I had a longstanding argument with her (although I guess we never technically dated for some incomprehensible reason (my biggest regret)) about the difference between being upset and mad. It turned into a bit of an inside joke later on, but I can never forget it.
When she was frustrated, it was a throaty hum-growl: mghm.
When she was upset, it was an expelled breath: humph.
When she was angry, it was silence:
It happened more than it should have—these primal noises that truly unadulterated feelings produced and that I caused. And I feel bad. Not bad as in, like, imperfect. But bad as in totally unworthy. Inadequate.
When I need a release from feeling like this, I cover my myopic eyeballs with a fresh set of rose tints, and I think of the high-pitched squeals I could always make with my two deadly finger guns. I think of the long, drawn-out sighs when she finally got comfortable as we snuggled together, those sighs of pure satisfaction that made me feel like we were the only two warm objects in this tired, cold universe.2All the while, my fucking arm was being irreparably damaged under a constant, metric fuck-ton of force. There were also the groggy groans she made when I woke her up when she most certainly did not want to be woken up, but it was okay because, when she eventually did get up, I would dance with her while we were still in our underwear, and she would lean her head next to mine and whisper “This is nice” to no one.