Slow Leak

by Katrina Irene Gould

Dating Joe proceeded like a slow leak in my bike tire. The rider with a slow leak assumes that pedaling feels harder because their backpack is jammed with too many school books or they didn’t get enough sleep the night before. It can take a while to twig to the fact that they no longer skim along the blacktop because their tires have lost air.

I should have predicted we’d end up here. Truthfully, Joe and I had never “skimmed along the top” of anything, even in the beginning. We’d settled – in all the ways that word implies. On our first date, I sneaked glimpses at my watch while Joe explained why his photo of a dewdrop on a rose, and the jazz on his turntable, were Good™.

Three weeks into winter term, mononucleosis dragged me down. I couldn’t have been happier for this break and its impact on my love life. I’d retain the cachet of a boyfriend while simultaneously having the perfect excuse to avoid him. During our phone calls, Joe told me he’d seen our friend, Stacy. Apparently, she didn’t think I was a very good girlfriend. What could I do? I had mono.

When the term ended, the doctor pronounced me well enough to return to school. Joe and I usually met in the library before first period. I hoped we could limp along through the summer. Waiting till August would spare us the discomfort of splitting while still in school; it was practically routine for people to break up once they headed to college.

Walking to the library one morning felt like climbing a hill with both tires flat. I slapped on a smile and sat beside Joe.

"I've got something for you." He opened his backpack.

I sat up straighter. Every show I'd ever watched that included these words ended with a piece of jewelry. Who didn't like jewelry? Maybe we weren’t as far gone as I'd thought.

Joe reached into his backpack. "Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

I did as he asked. Joe gripped my wrist, winding something around my index finger, the sensation not at all similar to a band of metal. I opened my eyes. A short piece of scratchy, dun-colored yarn lay loosely knotted where a ring might have been. A string around a finger was for remembering something important. What had I forgotten?

Before I could ask, Joe spoke. "This is for you." His lips pulled tightly against his braces. "The next time you need to wrap something around your finger, you can use this instead, and leave me out of it."

It was like he’d jammed a stick between my spokes, I was that shocked. Apparently I’d forgotten to wonder how Joe might be experiencing our perfect arrangement.

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Katrina Irene Gould has spent thirty fulfilling years as a psychotherapist in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has appeared in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, The Gilded Weathervane, HerStry, Mukoli, Glacial Hills Review, Literally Stories and others. Gould examines our knotty human experiences in hopes of creating more compassion for our struggles.