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Eight months ago, I had been inconvenienced by a broken heart, like it was an errand I needed to get out of bed on a Sunday morning for. Somebody somewhere said alcohol numbs the pain, so I consumed it as prescribed: every Friday and Saturday night at eleven. Patricia, my best friend, taken aback by the constant puffiness in my eyes—"Ah, so you can cry after all!"—had gone the extra mile and said there are 228,000 species of fish in the sea.
That’s how I love : in numbers and details and endlessly excruciating repetitions of words. It made logical sense to try and recuperate in the same manner.
Three months in, I meet Daniel. He asks me about my favorite rappers and why I live on my own. I am clueless when I realize he’s taken to sending me routine good morning texts. I am out of my depth when I find myself asking him out on a date. We agree to meet that Sunday. I overthink and underprepare.