I can tell you why I compare to her. Why I’m just as good as she is. She isn’t any better than me, I’m most certain of it, well nearly. I don’t see why Sammy left me for her, but I suppose it could be that she’s pretty. Not as pretty as me though, because let me tell you she is going to miss it. Sammy and I were the same size, so we could share clothes. Even though we didn’t. I would have offered to share my entire wardrobe. I have excellent taste. I picked Sammy, didn’t I? The new woman doesn’t. She didn’t pick Sammy. Sammy picked her.
I picked Sammy the first day of classes. Well, not the first. But when we were in the library actually studying and doing work. Things you do at the library. She was by the library, and had been twirling her pen. The afternoon sun streamed in and it haloed her in ethereal light. Sammy looked like an angel and I knew. I knew she was the one. Some people talk about meeting who they fall in love with and get married to in college and I thought that was ridiculous. Not for me. Then there was Sammy. Haloed, twirling her pen and I saw our future before us and it was beautiful.
The new one wears light wash jeans. Not acid wash, Christ I would intervene if Sammy had picked someone that wore acid wash. But anyway, she doesn’t seem to understand the value of a good pair of dark wash jeans. It makes her classless. I’m not classless. I only have one pair of semi-light wash jeans and it’s because Sammy said that I always wear such dark colors.
Dark colors flatter my legs. They thin them and make it appear like they go on for miles. Even if they don’t, which maybe they don’t. The new girl’s do. You can tell because she wears dresses every so often. And then the hems are outrageously short on her legs, because she’s got so much leg she has to deal with. Sammy never says anything about what the new one wears.
I have to let Sammy see what’s out there. She has to see that I’m the best life partner. I have to let her see that no one else can offer what I can: the security, the warmth of passion that I can. I may be smaller than her, but I’ll protect her. I was going to the coffee shop across the quad the other day and saw her lying on the grass with a guy. Her gorgeous head that belongs to me was resting on his chest.
His flat chest. Her fingers were twined into his, resting above her head in a position that couldn’t have been comfortable that looked exactly out of a J.Crew catalog. Nobody in college can afford J.Crew unless you’re douche or your dad’s a douche lawyer. Stop re-enacting their stupid photo shoots. Don’t cradle her head with your free hand. Don’t make her hold the textbook. Sammy shouldn’t have been smiling. She didn’t belong laughing at whatever the douche was saying. She doesn’t even like guys. She likes me. I know she does.
I’m fairly certain she does. She smiles at me when we’re sitting a few tables apart in the library. She tells me I look nice. She noticed when I started wearing my hair different. Not even my RA noticed and that’s something you should notice. It’s an indicator for suicide when people make big changes. Or that they’re in love. And I’m in love. I can see us together, and I just have to let Sammy get this ridiculous dating out of her system. If she wants to experiment with boys, I suppose I have to let her. I’ll just make sure she goes to the clinic before we get really serious in bed. I don’t want something some douche might have given her.
I would never give her something. And I can’t get her pregnant. Sammy isn’t ready for a baby, not at this stage in life. That’s why I’m so much better than them. All of them. And I’m pretty. She said my hair is nice. Sammy told me.