Selfies
by X.C. Atkins
When I woke up, I reached for my phone. I really hated this about myself. This gross reflex.
With one eye, I did see a message from Vera on my phone.
It was a picture of her. A selfie.
She’d sent it late. Past two a.m. I’d long been asleep. I wasn’t like that anymore.
In the picture, she was smiling, and the outfit she wore was funky and bright. Another party she’d attended.
She’d been sending me selfies lately. I hadn’t asked her to. I usually responded, but not always. Most of the time, just an emoji or a “nice.”
I didn’t want to seem like I was ignoring her, but God, I could care less.
We’d slept together a week ago. I didn’t really remember any of it. I’d been near blackout, running around with her that night, doing anything I could to forget, not feel, feel something else, escape from the windmill of my mind for any time available.
And of course, sleeping together felt so anticlimactic. I remember in the morning, searching for something more between us. Something intimate and grounded. When she finally left my place, it stayed on me for maybe fifteen minutes. The warmth of a woman. A kind of trust she’d given me. Then I was right back to missing my ex.
Put the plaque on the wall. I’d made it to the point of my life where fucking a beautiful woman meant next to nothing to me.
I looked at Vera’s selfie, saw the lines in her face. She’d lived, that’s for sure. So had I. She was trying to stay young. I didn’t have anything against it. I understood we all had our own motivations. What she was doing, very simply, I had no interest in. That was that.
For a while, she kept sending me photos. It kind of felt like someone blowing you a kiss. Cute, but what was the point? And how many other people were you blowing kisses to?
That was a dumb thought. Who cared. I didn’t. Not anymore.
Mornings were always the hardest part of my day. But at least I’d cut down on the drinking. I sat at my dining table, waiting for the coffee to be ready, sometimes even blocking out sound. I’d be scrolling through my phone, the pictures. I knew I had to delete or at least transfer all the pictures of my ex, to something or somewhere else not so easily accessible, but I just wasn’t anywhere near ready yet. It seemed like an undertaking of such monumental proportions, anytime I even thought of it, I wanted to just go to bed. Or chug a bottle of tequila. Or pound my hand with a hammer.
There were so many pictures of her, of us. I had a decade’s worth of selfies from this person. But it was my life. She had been my life. The only time I’d ever deleted any was if I’d had multiples.
She used to tell me I took terrible pictures of her. I feel like I’d never seen a bad picture of her in my life. Even the old family photo where she was a kid missing a front tooth.
It felt crazy to look back, all the different places, her different hairstyles and outfits, what event we were at, one with the cat, one with the dog, cat and the dog, all of us. I’d ask for a selfie, or she’d send me one just to update me on the day. I’d ask her how her day was, and I’d get a picture of her kissing the dog or her on a hike or her with her mom. Her sticking out her tongue. Always her big blue eyes. I never realized how much security it granted me. How much of a place in the world. Her. Right there. My girl. My fiancé. My wife. My ex.
I always thought it was crazy to go on someone’s Instagram and just see nothing but selfies. What could be going through this lunatic’s mind, I’d think? The ones who did the same facial expression particularly drove me nuts. My ex didn’t do that. But the funny thing is, I wanted to make an account of her once. Just of her eating. Being across from me at a meal. We loved to go out to eat. I never got tired of looking at her. I don’t know why we’d stopped doing stuff like that. We’d stopped doing everything in the end. We’d even finally stopped fighting.
These things, these selfies, they are portals. For some people, they’re just portals to fantasy. But for many of us, they’re portals to a future. A future you want very much so to live in. Whether you know how to get there or not. The place that will make you happy. Make you complete. Make this life mean anything. Make this life feel everything.
Months later, I think Vera had gotten the clue. The selfies had vanished. I hadn’t told her yet that I’d started seeing someone. It was still very early stage, but I thought about this new woman in my life a lot, and we talked a lot, and it was a lot of fun. Just talking was fun. What a relief and comfort talking could be, without incessant conflict.
I still thought about my ex, but it was a lot less painful. I would just get sad sometimes was all. Which I knew was perfectly normal.
Sometimes I’d say to myself, when I was alone, walking or driving, thinking of her, I’d say, “I miss you, baby.” Out loud. And then whatever that thing was that was holding on to me would lift off. Just enough. And I could keep on.
Anyway, I was getting ready to take a trip. I wouldn’t see my new girl for a couple weeks. It seemed like a first test of some kind. We were both playing it cool, but the feeling was tangible when we would talk, even non-talk.
I was wondering if you could do me a favor, I texted her.
What? she said back.
Could you send me a selfie?
Why? she asked.
I just want to see your face.
It took a while before I got a response. A really long time. Seventeen minutes to be exact. But she finally sent it. She was sitting in her car. She had her hair pulled back. I looked at it for a nice little while, imagining a whole life.
Thank you, I told her.
X.C. Atkins is the author of Grace Street Alley and other stories (Makeout Creek Books) and The Desperado Days (Trnsfr Books). He has work in Prairie Schooner, Maudlin House, BULL, Akashic Books Richmond Noir, Coal Hill Review, and other places. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and an alumni of Virginia Commonwealth University. He lives and writes in Los Angeles. (See more at www.xcatkins.com and on IG @wolf_cassoulet)