Self Portrait With an Empty Moon

I only get autophobia in the spring, or at least that’s what I tell people. It’s the season that’s printed on calendars with crooked lines but never seems to exist in this mustache of constellations and planets. There are specific step-by-step directions that I follow to rid myself of winter’s thick cardigan. 

• To think of my life as this big chess metaphor, where I’m the queen of ivory and ravens like a grayscale film of an unvoiced war. If I’m the queen everyone else is a pawn so I’m not alone.
• To hop-scotch into the day when I drive to visit him, like chalk peppered onto a dripping sidewalk.

His name is Haven and he belongs on a denture billboard beside the highway with that smile of his. His last name starts with an L or a K but it doesn’t matter to me. I only talk to him when my hairdryer is on or when I’m writing lists of relationships that bear the status of unavailable. 

We see each other twice a year, not always on the same date. With him chewing on an orange peel and me forgetting about the half-mermaid half-goat creature tattooed about his left hip. It’s a Capricorn sea-goat with strings of triangle patterns and horns that look like balloon art and could be twisted into a deformed puppy. 

I stopped dating two months ago and it’s driving me crazy. I tell myself it isn’t because of the way Haven laughs or how he used to kiss me when thunder burned scales of a dragon into the sky. Now, I’m having a hard time staying out of boredom’s way. I’ve made more lists but it won’t help anyone. 

• When I’m lonely I’ll watch documentaries and pretend college did me any good with pencils tucked behind my ear.
• When I’m lonely I’ll invite my neighbors over for a drink and a game of cards but I’ll only end up touching their wrinkled cheeks and talking about the faults of the queen of spades.
• When I’m lonely I’ll sit in my bed with pastry crumbs and think about boys with the hint of strawberry toothpaste lingering in their breath and how they should fit into the unbreathing cages of a Polaroid picture.
• When I’m lonely I’ll call Haven and I’ll meet him in a city.

And that’s exactly what I do. There is a rhyme and reason to why I’m driving down to Oakland at 8:30 in the morning but I couldn’t tell you. I blast ’90s music disguised by heavy lyrics and let the tail of my scarf swim through the wind. After a while I consider playing some Ed Sheeran because I know Haven likes him. But it’s all a waste of time so I focus on the railroads that skip parallelly and check my phone for missed texts. 

There aren’t any. Boredom is starting to take over so I think about pineapples that dance on the dashboards of cars, forever going back and forth like an annoying GIF. I make a mental list of things Haven would say if he had the decency to text me. After all, I’m driving an hour and a half to do some odd activity he’s planned for us. 

• “It’s a date.”
• “I love it, I love you.”
• “The good old days.”

It’s these types of comments that shake me into sleepless nights under an empty moon and devouring all the contents of my mini fridge. We are only friends but have a rich history. I’d only dated him for the free meals and nights away from my scummy apartment. 

Polysemy is a single word to describe the comments. I watch Mickey Mouse cartoons on the weekends and do newspaper mache on Wednesdays but I’m not stupid. I know each text has multiple meanings and that Haven is trying to mess with my head. 

I arrive on time. The address is to an old building on the eastern side and has weeds sprouting at the toes of the pillars. Cracks in the pavement form hexagons like an old geometry quiz. At first I turn off the engine and think that I’ve arrived at the wrong place. 

But out of the corner of my eye I see Haven’s old white Toyota parked illegally on the sidewalk. He’s written outdated and inspirational quotes on it in Sharpie. Once he convinced me to do the same but all I wrote is “Write quotes on your car, said by Hayden,” just above the bumper in curly handwriting. 

Is it weird that I know every license plate to the car he’s ever had? Steady like the hard-edged print of a typewriter. 

• R7Y KM0
• XWF 198
• G27 BE7

I pick at the scab on my forehead, creating moon craters in my skin, before gathering my purse and entering the building. Inside, it’s timeworn in every sense of the word. A greasy smell wafts from where dimming neon menus stipple the carpet and leather seats stay exhaling fluff onto the floor. 

To the left, there is a little restaurant that probably only serves hamburgers and french fries. It would be a problem because I’d be on a diet, but I let go of that when I let go of any romantic relationship with Haven. In front of me starts a smooth wooden floor that stretches about 150 feet into the distance. It almost looks new with its shiny peanut butter coat. On it, there stands people. 

Mostly people strapping velcro pads onto their elbows with pink hair and nose rings. Some of them wearing ponytails and others wearing collared shirts. But most importantly, behind them are large plastic balls, complete with clear cushions on the inside. And on the far end of the building, tall bowling pins stand eight feet high like skyscrapers under a jelly sky. 

There are some things I know and others I don’t. I don’t see Haven so I have to fill the time. 

• Haven loves me?
• I love Haven?
• I want to be more than friends?
• It's not actually spring yet?
• Did he invite me to go human bowling?
• What is human bowling?

“What’re you writing?” 

I look up to see him, walking from the restaurant, eyes twinkling and hands in his jacket pockets. He looks hunched like a stone statue in a storm. My lips twist, barely forming a half-smile. We don’t hug. 

“Nothing.” I hide my inked wrist in the safety of my sleeve. 

Haven has shaved his head since the last time. There is still some hair left, but it’s uneven, like running your head over unmowed grass in front of an abandoned house. I like it, but I miss his old hair that pastes to his face in ripples. 

I hook my arm through his, “So, human bowling?” 

He leads me back into the restaurant and places me at a booth. Laughter trickles out from behind his palm. “You recognize it?” 

“No, no,” I say, spreading my hands out on the table. It’s slimy and some brown guck gets stuck under my fingers. “I just guessed after seeing the pins and people with concussion pads.” 

Haven cracks his knuckles and sighs. “I’m sorry, okay? It’s been a new hobby of mine and I’ve been practicing it a lot. I just thought you’d want to try it.” 

The fluorescent lights flash in my eyes and mind spins like a merry-go-round. Haven really did bring me to go human bowling? I don’t even know what it is but I already hate it. 

A noise splinters deep in my throat. Kind of like a giggle but molded into something else. “It’s like I’m the only one trying at this relationship.” I’d rather be anywhere else so I dash out of the double doors and back into my locked car. There’s extra receipts in the compartments so I start scribbling. 

• I’d rather be in my office at my apartment, imagining I’m working with my feet propped up on the desk and a generous amount of wine twirling in between my fingers.
• I’d rather be the ace of spades in a red world, being bent in all directions.
• I’d rather be at a dinner in the center of town, a horizon of candles prancing over melting wax, and Haven’s beautiful face in front of me.

Yet here I am, curled up in the passenger seat of my car, forcing crocodile tears out of my eyes. I’m about to take out the keys but Haven knocks softly on the window, his breath beating against it. I roll it down and face away. My head still feels like a balloon caught on a string. 

“I’m sorry,” he swallows, leaning his shoulders onto the side of the car. “I didn’t know that’s what you wanted.” 

“It’s fine,” I cleaned my face with the back of my hand, “I shouldn’t’ve overreacted.” I thought it was a date. 

Haven scratches the side of his face, the nails drawing skin into white lines. “I’m going to go back in and play a round of bowling. Come join me when you can, okay?” 

I nod, tangling tissues on the tips of my fingers and watching the box throw up more into my hand. He walks away, back into the building, his face down. 

Haven’s favorite hobbies:

• Human bowling
• Breaking hearts

This list stays in my pocket. For a few minutes I weigh my options. I don’t want to make Haven happy anymore. I want him to hurt as my clock clicks its tongue. I wonder absentmindedly if he knows the others in there. It seems to be some sort of gathering where every person is interested in a non-existent sport. 

I’ve made up my mind. I slip out my car and shut the door with a bang. The doors of the building open with a hiss, but suddenly I see him. He’s trapped in a plastic bubble like a hamster on a wheel, a smile dotted onto his chin. The teens grind their teeth and push him towards the pins. The pins stand like soldiers on the far end, tall and unmoving. 

My breath tries to wiggle in my throat. He knocks over eight out of ten pins. The people cheer, waving their arms in the air, and Haven gets right back up from the floor. He’s beaming. 

I can’t control myself and so I whistle. The sound vibrates against my teeth and echoes through the room. I exit yet again when everyone turns to see where the noise came from. Haven just wanted me to try it, his hobby, that he loves. I lay back into the leather seat of my car and think of the flip-flop inside my chest. 

And so I write him an explanation. 

• I should’ve told you that I loved you from a distance.
• I should’ve told you that I didn’t think it’d work out.
• I should’ve told you that we shouldn’t see each other anymore.

I should’ve driven away a long time ago. And so I do. 

I only get fear of being alone in the spring, or at least that’s my lie.