Catching the California Wave

One of a Million

“You know I love you,” he said, hand poised in mid-air.

“I love lots of people,” he added, a smug smile pulling at the edge of his thin lips. 

“We are friends, and I love you.”

He loved me like a beige shirt.

He loved me as if there were 15 others in his closet, just waiting to be chosen for the day.

He loved me like an egg white omelet, a Monday morning, a hazy day.

I pulled his shirt over my head, tucking the brown seams into my jeans before casting out into the grey morning. 

I loved myself like a Tuesday afternoon, a turkey sandwich on store-bought bread, black work pants, a re-run on a weeknight.

I blended into the crowd on the subway to work, my shirt melting into a million neutral hues.

“Take a number,” the deli clerk called to the nameless crowd.

“456,” and a sandwich wrapped in brown paper was pushed to me across the chipped deli counter.

I smoothed pale lipstick over my tired lips and pressed them into a dim smile before finding my station inside a sea of cubicles.

336 unread e-mails to answer, three video conferences this afternoon, and $2,496, the amount of my paycheck earned in two weeks’ time. 

“I love lots of people,” he said, looking through me. 

I followed the crowd home on an empty, nameless evening.

I painted the cream-colored walls myself and searched for a week for matching caramel throws, all of which, paired with the neutral carpeting the realtor insisted would increase the resell value.

“I love lots of people,” he said, hand poised in midair.

I collapsed into my down-stuffed, hand-sewn sandstone sectional,  my beige shirt blending in inoffensively as I disappeared into the sea of self-designed mediocrity.