Jealousy
There was a boy I used to be involved with. (And when I speak of jealousy, please keep in mind it’s not the kind of jealousy which is tinted red and green but instead the kind of jealousy which is sepia toned; the color of memories stored in worn out photographs and old slides that don’t belong to you but to your aunt or your friends parents and have been stored, untouched, in a closet for twenty years…) This boy found another girl to love. Sometimes he speaks of their sex. Sometimes he speaks of the way in which, when they’re in bed together, he looks into her eyes and feels both physically and mentally a part of her. He speaks of collision and combination and combustion. And that makes me feel jealous.
