FOCUS — TJ FULLER
/He hoped his first would be Crystal, who wiped her hand on his belly afterward, but she had planted her True Love Waits flag in the hill outside her megachurch, and Rachel and him only pretended to know each other in the darkroom, finding corners, turning off the light, searching out seams and skin, and even though Brianna was a bragger, all they ever got was handsy, which was better than Anita, who talked him into wearing lipstick, a brighter shade than hers, the taste of their breaths the same, but wouldn’t slip out of her pencil skirt, or Martin, who talked him into a fair trade, each of them avoiding eye contact, claiming each other was their first man, but he had traded with Ari and let Alex watch; in fact, after Martin, he told Eva that shame was flash paper, but he still burnt at some memories, like lying about Jessica and Erin—it was just he had gone so long without what everyone else already had, or seemingly had, because Tina told him all she’d ever done was dry and Kristin said she was waiting for something real—then what am I? he had asked and she had laughed, even though he wasn’t joking, couldn’t kid about the way loneliness found him buying microwave meals and thrift dishes, felt more like homesickness, each cell floating back to Sandra’s bedroom or the high school darkroom, even as he tongued between Kristin’s legs, he felt shot through with that homesick air, and when Angela wanted a massage, he missed Kristin, always too early to whatever he might miss, which is why he keeps turning the prism of your body, soft hairs, red mole, noticing to stay present, you, his second love, fourth dinner with the parents, seventh online official, first time figuring out the goddamn fucking angle, lower lower, tip your hips, bend back back, higher, almost twenty years of dreaming, undressing, planning, pretending—angling—of chocolate roses and embarrassing mixtapes and useless words, of missing the arc for the moment or the moment for the arc, just to get this close and—here here here here.
TJ Fuller writes and teaches in Portland, Oregon. His writing has appeared in Hobart, Volume 1 Brooklyn, Jellyfish Review, and elsewhere. He can be found online @fullertj.
