Im not sad, exactly. I'm not crying, or aching, or missing him. In fact, I'm thinking back in all the things that I DIDN'T really like about G.

I hated his teeth. He did not have nice teeth.

I hated his laugh. I realize now it's because he only ever laughed at something HE said.

I hated the way he said "okay?" like a question in the middle of conversation. It's hard to describe. His whole speech patten was somehow off. His rhythm, his cadence, was so weird sometimes. Almost like one would expect a non-English speaker to be if they weren't fluent in the language. And he grew up locally.

I hated the way he started conversations. Conversation was never effortless. I remember telling my
Mom that it felt like an interview. When we were first dating, instead of just finding out my views naturally, he would ask questions that felt like a test on current events. "I was wondering how you felt about xyz.". It was so odd.

Sex. Sex was not that great. Though I craved it with him. I felt like a 12 year old boy at times- daydreaming, always turned on, always wanting to be with him. I felt so alive and, looking back, sex was never that great. He never undressed me. Not one time. He barely touched me with his hands. There was very little foreplay, and if there was, *i* was the one doing the work. He was small- and I'm not saying this out of anger or spite. He really was. Im a firm believer thay size really doesnt matter, so long as the guy knows how to use what he has... But he didnt. I told my friend after the first time we slept together- "He's a great guy, but I'm not sure I want a lifetime with someone that bad in bed." so why did I like sex with him ao much for the 9+ months we were together?

I hated what a hypocrite he was. He would go on and in about how bad our diet is in America (he wanted to be Brazilian so badly, it should have been a clue about his relationship with that whore), but would boast about how many chicken mcnuggets he ate when he took his daughter out to eat. And I really don't think that kid ever saw a vegetable from him...

I hated this green button down shirt he would wear to work. It was too small. The sleeves were too short. And this was a man that was a self proclaimed "metrosexual". I hated that shirt.

But tonight I am lying in bed, unable to sleep. And I find myself feeling his hands in mine. I remember the pattern of hair on his arm. I remember the feeling is his watch against my wrist when he held my hand. It is still so PRESENT. It is not wistful, exactly. It is just THERE. I can smell him. It does not disgust me, as I hoped it might someday. It leads me to thoughts of HER, of that horrible awful condescending Brazilian whore (and I'm sorry, I know she was also one of the SEVEN OW but she's the one he "picked" & and she was so sickeningly condescending to me in the face of the truth that I hate her too). I wonder if they are married. I wonder if he moved to brazil or if she moved here. Why do I care? Why do I even think about this stuff?

I could cry, I suppose. It's not automatic anymore. It only happens when I allow myself to really MISS who he pretended he was, or when I let myself get angry enough at him for abusing me or God for allowing Gordon into my life. I could cry right now. But I'm not. I'm just... I don't even KNOW what I am feeling.

I do not miss being abused. I do not miss ring stood up, lied to, cheated on, belittled, or devalued. I do not miss you, Gordon. Then why are you still HERE???