1
“You have to teach them all that stuff,” she says, “Men don’t know what to do. They need help figuring it out.” I pump the brakes for dramatic effect.
2
Periodically, I crave romantic love but then I open up Instagram. IGTV videos fill my discover page explaining: “How to Get Him to Commit,” or “How to Frame Your Messages So He Knows You Mean Business,” or “How to be Accessible Yet Mysterious.” I don’t want to strategize. I refuse to fold his laundry while he sleeps with Cindy. I could care less about Love Languages or Myers-Briggs or whatever his mom said to him when he was six and that’s why he can’t tell me he loves me. When I tuck myself in at night, I dream of a world devoid of three-in-one.
3
In the first act, I stroll into the drugstore and find the aisle with all the Valentine’s Day goodies. Suddenly, I’m on a rampage. I knock over all the displays, tear apart every heart-shaped whatever, and stomp on the candy boxes yelling “END THIS FRAUDULENT HOLIDAY. IS THIS LOW-GRADE VERSION OF MATERIAL LOVE WHAT Y’ALL CALL ROMANTIC?”
4
The astrology of my last rendezvous was problematic, to say the least. The composite chart looked great, but the synastry was a little sketchy. The tarot card reading went well at first. Lovers. The Ten of Cups. —-Three of Swords. Seven of Swords. The Tower. Ten of Swords. “The Star Card? Girl I told you to stop messing with these Water Bearers. Just because you’re a water sign doesn’t mean you should run with them sis.”
5
Romantic love is starting to sound like a capitalist ponzi scheme. I look around and all I see are perfect Black women with relationship resume qualifications like: edges laid, daily exercise, skin shining, flawless style, multilayered personality, glowy smile, in therapy squashing trauma, diet of mostly vegetables, versed in multiple humor techniques, degree list long, and income crispy. Simultaneously, Black women endure consistent disrespect, betrayal, and neglect. Somebody lying, Your Honor, and it ain’t the Black women.
6
Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three heartbreaks since my last confession and I’d like to confess that I broke commandment six. As a result, I broke commandment four but listen that was my only window to handle it the way it needed to be done. And obviously, I’ve not kept my word about three either so you probably know that commandment one is completely out the window, but it’s because he told me he loved me. I know I should’ve known when I saw the comment he left on that girl's Instagram page, but listen it’s not my fault. He’s the one who should be in here confessing that he broke commandment seven. He broke it several times.
7
“If you’re actually into that guy you should check his socials to see if he likes Black women.”
8
In the second act, I storm into the drugstore and find the aisle with all the Valentine’s Day goodies. I buy every item on the row. The man with the scanner says, “Wow whoever the guy is, he’s lucky.” “It’s all for me,” I say.
9
The smooth sound of Snoh Aalegra blasts through the stereo in the car. “What’s a situationship?” my father asks talking over the music. I fake focus on the red light avoiding his eye contact from the passenger seat. We’re sitting at the intersection in front of the street where the boy I once loved previously lived. “So it’s like being friends with benefits but not because you’re not actually friends. You’re lovers but you’re not actually lovers, because it’s not that deep. You’re definitely not in a relationship, because relationships only happen when we label them. If you don’t say relationship out loud then it isn’t a relationship; even if it checks off all the boxes to qualify for a relationship. It’s a bit of a situation you know?” I pump the breaks for dramatic effect. “What’s with this intersection?” he asks. I start to wonder if anyone in his generation ever found themselves in a situation. Guaranteed at least one person did, but millennials put a name to it. We enjoy carving out official spaces for fuckery.
10
At the press conference, I stand at the mic and say, “The men have made it clear that they hate effort. Maybe we could all agree to do what millennials do best; destroy industries. Let’s make a plan to abolish romantic love and all the industries associated with it.” Security escorts me out.
11
I sit holding a glass of wine surrounded by all my girlfriends. SZA plays in the background as one of them details the events of her relationship/ex-relationship/situation/fling/thing. We become FBI agents in training dissecting every tweet, Instagram DM, Snapchat, and iMessage thread. Within three minutes we have a breakdown of her every move and conversation with the man in question. I’m exhausted. At least when I did an analysis in college I received a degree for my efforts. Another friend speaks up and explains you can’t be honest about your feelings these days. Guys rotate three girls minimum so they can compartmentalize emotions and get what they need from each. I’m trying not to tune out the whole conversation, but I see their mouths moving and only hear the sound of Eartha Kitt laughing. I refocus. Something about not texting back too quick. Double texting is forbidden and sending memes too early on is a red flag. Someone else interjects to talk about her boyfriend who she fights with every day, but it’s good because she loves him. They watch Netflix, chill, his phone rings, and the gaslighting starts. I’m fading out again. My man is my man is your man heard it’s her man too. Another friend presents a picture of her and her new man. He’s in sweatpants and needs a haircut. She’s wearing heels, a designer dress, and three paychecks worth of product from Sephora. I’ve run out of optimism. The bar isn’t on the ground. The bar isn’t even in hell. I could accept hell. The bar has dissolved. There is no bar. The bar is take what men give you but it’s okay because all of my friends are in love.
12
Romantic love is worthless I’m sure of it, but the way Russell adores Ciara. The way Harry looks at Meghan. W’Kabi and Okoye. Will and Jada’s longevity—I want to turn into a witch wizard. Maybe Hermione will show me a spell so I can get to that romance without sifting through the haystack.
13
Such a Downer, He’ll Stop You From Having Fun Every Day of The Week. Way Too Dumb for You. Will Ignore You But Make Art About You. Alarming Hygiene. Sagittarius. Searching for a Mommy. Never Gonna Love You No Matter What You Do.
14
In the third act, I leave the drugstore with tampons in one hand and a pint of gelato in the other. I put my car in park at the stoplight in the center of the intersection across the street from… I get out of the car, click my heels three times, and I’m transported to a planet where Love’s dodgy, third cousin Romantic Love doesn’t exist. Saturn. I unite with Love on Saturn. The bliss found in the center of Love sacred on the planet. Relating and intimacy with friends and strangers revered too. No one swipes right for anything or stresses over the number of texts they send. Not a soul degraded. A giant projection of the intersection back on Earth where I left my car plays on a screen in the town’s square. The stoplight turns green.
Haley Holifield is a filmmaker and writer based in Atlanta, Georgia.
You can find her work at haleyholifield.com.