"Perception", "Same Frequency" & "What No One Tells You About Living On Your Own After a Breakup" by Chelsea Dodds
- Roi Fainéant
- 5 days ago
- 3 min read
Perception
“You need to give me some warning next time
so I don’t laugh,” I say as we exit the elevator,
but you tell me I’ll catch on with practice.
I wonder if you do this with all the girls
you hang out with: wait for a stranger
to enter then look me in the eyes,
slick your hair back, and start on a story
about how grandma called and they’ll have
to amputate. Your lips and tone are even.
You’ve rehearsed this. I was never good
at improv but I try to play along
because I don’t want you to think
I’m not fun and spontaneous.
The receptionist at the next hotel
doesn’t know what to do with us
after placing two water bottles
on the counter and you telling him,
“she keeps telling me I need to hydrate more.”
He looks at us one at a time, stern-faced,
and says, “I know better than to get involved,”
as though we’re an old married couple
and not a couple of thirty-somethings
with reservations in separate rooms
because when we booked this trip
you had a girlfriend and we had
a budget to fill.
Two days later, at lunch,
our server apologizes for the wait,
then says, “Though it looks like
you’re enjoying each other’s company,”
and you say, “we are,” before sipping
your iced tea, and I know she knows
there is something lingering under the surface.
Just like the rental car associate
who asked if we were married but gave us
the same rate anyway.
Just like the hiker we passed at Pinnacles
who offered to take our picture and said,
“gorgeous” after each shot.
You’re surprised when I tell you I have feelings.
You say you don’t often think about
how other people perceive you or the things
you say, but when I ask if you noticed vibes,
you say we have a “connection,”
as if the two can’t be synonymous,
as if it isn’t obvious to everyone
except you.
Same Frequency
In Monterey, we swap stories from our senior proms.
I tell about my friend giving the DJ a mix CD
featuring “Keasbey Nights,” and all the kids
who stayed until the end formed a circular
skank pit and danced.
You’re familiar with ska, but not skanking,
so the next morning I demonstrate
in my hotel room, kicking my feet and swinging
my arms. You’re entertained, but say you hate
that it’s called skanking.
You sit in the desk chair, never
moving closer, though I want you to.
My friends have always told me I’m too
innocent, and maybe your hesitation
puts me in good company.
A couple days later,
driving through Soledad and sienna mountains,
“Rude” by Magic! plays in static bursts
on the one radio station we can find
not broadcasting church sermons on Sunday.
It’s catchy. I sing along.
You say you hate the lyrics,
that the fictional character in the song
is the rude one, marrying his girl anyway
after her dad says no.
I pause before twisting the radio dial.
I used to be attracted to guys
who liked the same music as me,
but now I’m noticing all the more important
layers, appearing in static bursts
like one-second clips of familiar songs
I’d almost forgotten the words to,
while scrolling through the FM band.
What No One Tells You About Living on Your Own After a Breakup
How you won’t miss the person you lived with,
but you’ll miss having someone
to help zip up your dress,
clean the snow off your car,
listen to you vent after a stressful day,
celebrate when you get a poem published.
How you’ll eat and sleep better,
keep a cleaner house,
learn to mow the lawn, man the grill,
find time to work out and get the body
you wish you had when there was someone
to share it with.
How you might prefer the solitude.