I want to tell a love story

“Foundational” by David A. Goodrum

We’re at a party.

We’re at a party and he is drunk and I am not — or I am, but not as drunk as him, so I tell him I’m not, and he doesn’t believe me — or he might, but he likes to argue.

We are at a party and we are drunk and we are making the kind of strange, caustic spectacle of ourselves that Ethan once told me convinced him never to date. (Not that we did, date. We did something like dating, but also like two opposing magnets trapped in a paper bag. We did damage.)

We are at a party and we are equal parts drunk and terrible, and we are talking to two girls, who are pleasantly sociable even when he forgets both their names. And he says I used to be better at talking to people and I say that’s not what I remember and he says I was good enough to get you into — and then stops himself, and stops me from daring him to finish. And one of the girls leaves, and I don’t blame her.

We are at a party and we are drunk and careless and the one girl still talking to us is leaning on the doorframe, and I can tell she thinks we’re funny, but not in a way that endears — the same reason one goes to a circus. And she laughs when the back of his hand catches my nose and he traps my face between his palms while gentle thumbs check for damage even though I’m laughing too, and the girl says did you just hit her and he says it’s okay, she hits me all the time which isn’t true, he well knows, but I say only when you deserve it. And the girl at the party who watches us like a sideshow says I hate small talk. I want to talk about real things. The meaning of life, or what is love

We are still at a party I’ve been dying to leave for hours, and we are drunk with an ugly, messy truth between us, and this girl — this stranger, is already laughing, and he looks to me first What is love? His eyes are dark like the sky through a telescope lens, and he is so close to my face and warm. What is love to you? And I say you’re not allowed to ask me that and the girl looks between us with dawning discomfort and says maybe that was a bad first question. What is love? He asks me again and again I say I won’t answer and he says I think that people are selfish. I think that love is just caring a bit more for another person than you do for yourself — So he asks me again, one more time what is love? And the girl sings baby don’t hurt me and he laughs. I still won’t answer, and he asks me why and I think You know. You have to know. And the asking is nearly cruel. Nearly. We’re both the type to let a match burn too long.

About the Author

Devon Borkowski is a writer, artist, and actor from the New Jersey Pine Barrens. She is also a proud member of the Rappahannock tribe of Virginia. Devon graduated from Rutgers New Brunswick class of 2022, with a BFA in Visual Arts. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in The Dillydoun Reveiw, The Closed Eye Open, and Room Magazine.

About the artist

David A. Goodrum, photographer/writer, lives in Corvallis, Oregon. His photography has graced the covers of several art and literature magazines, most recently Cirque Journal, Willows Wept Review, Blue Mesa Review, Ilanot Review, Red Rock Review, The Moving Force Journal, Snapdragon Journal, and appeared in many others. His artistic vision has always been to create a visual field that momentarily transports you away from hectic daily events and into a place that delights in an intimate view of the world. See additional work, both photos and poems, at www.davidgoodrum.com.