You never asked me how I felt about our camping trip. I was afraid to go camping, but I went with you anyway. I hated the cold, disliked bugs, and never understood what to pack and what not to pack. That’s why my Swiss army knife was right next to my portable DVD player, which I had forgotten to bring movies for. It was one of our first dates, but it was unlike our previous ones. We had gone to Luigi’s, coffee shops, and my apartment once, but this one was a whole night alone away from any other distractions or comforts.
When you asked me if I wanted to go camping, I was reluctant to say yes. Where would we go? What would we sleep in? What would we do? Set up camp and wait all day to start a fire because we all know that’s the best part of camping. At least that’s what my dad’s goals always were when we used to go. Back when I was a kid, before he died when I was in high school. You assured to me though that you had it all covered. You had a spot, all the gear, and firewood. My nervousness for this trip was put to rest that night when we sat by the fire. You told me about high school and how you played soccer, and I told you about my dad’s numerous attempts to teach me masculinity. That night, when the fire died down and you wrapped your body around mine — I knew I wanted to take this plunge. When we looked into each other’s eyes. Your little pools of honey and my dirty emeralds reflected one another. I loved every moment.
You didn’t feel the same. That night was nothing special for you. I was just another log in your fire pit-shaped loin. At least that’s what I told myself when you broke up with me once we got back. At least that is what I told myself when I saw you the other day with another man. He was walking out of Rosauers with you under one arm and a roll of wood under the other.
Creative Writing by Dylan Siegel
Design by Hagen Hunker