Low Tide, by Jillian Rose Krupp

Low Tide, by Jillian Rose Krupp
Low Tide, by Jillian Rose Krupp

Low Tide, by Jillian Rose Krupp

I walked over there knowing he would try and penetrate me. Every time I’ve seen him over the past few years, he gives a longing stare at some piece of my body, making it feel inanimate. I got the largest bottle of wine I could, the liquor store troll tries to force mint Oreos on me, again. It’s a joke that’s lost its funny. My shorts feel silly, like my thighs are merging together, begging to feel. I try to figure out how to use the call system to get inside. Wonder why I can never figure out technology, even old, simple machines. Call him to let me in, finding myself laughing that he’d know why I was there after seeing a wine bottle the size of my left leg.

“Be right out”

He said.

I think about maybe just going home, maybe I should stop trying to get fucked just to see the other person’s reactions, if they look alive, experiencing something I just can’t right now.

He is so small still,

in the elevator, I try not to stare.

The first few minutes I’m with someone


I need some time to adjust. The first few sentences are always half said, mildly unintelligible animal sounds.


get- you get papers delivered here?” My mouth doesn’t move the way I want it too.

He tries to look me in the eyes and I nervously turn my head to stare at the elevator’s left side wall.

“Yeah, guess I do.”

I don’t know what to talk about, so I babble

-almost manic.

I tell him I was almost fired, curse every other word.

I have been in his spacious apartment for 10 minutes and have already finished a generous glass.

He tells me he’s sorry dinner’s not ready, but I don’t care. I hadn’t expected it to be.

I sit by his kitchen window and comment on the things I see outside.

A train goes by that looks like cargo. I have always been fascinated by forms of transportation. I’ve often driven to the airport just to sit inside it.

I try not to think about what that may mean about me. But then I think about it a lot anyway.

We sit on the floor and eat, he’s on some special diet because he cares what his body feels like.

I tease him about that because I’ve never had that concern.

“Sorry. I think I spilled some tomato sauce on your rug…”

He hardly speaks, stares at my lips, and agrees with me about how depressing it is to have gotten ourselves in the position of having full-time jobs and his being in debt from school.

“Are my lips purple or something? You keep glancing at them.”

He laughs, “Well, yeah. They are.” and his eyes droop,

-is he trying to be sexy? “But that’s not why I’m staring at them.”


I don’t care.

I haven’t eaten anything all day and the sudden protrusion my stomach’s feeling makes me want to explode a little, then I wonder if I could.

“I’m gonna smoke again, is that OK?”

“Let me open the screen for you. Want more wine?”

I smoke and have another full glass in my hand.

He stands by me, almost hovering.

I end up talking a lot about fucking, while simultaneously realizing how disgusted I am by it and not sure why I do this trick with people I may want to sleep with.

It doesn’t actually matter what you are trying to express to someone about sex, because once you mention to word, some immediate desire is realized in the frontal lobe.

This both is, and is not, my intention. This is a test of other people’s stupidity. A prediction can be easily made.

“I don’t know what I’m talking about. I just think…I mean, you just always wanted to have sex. And I honestly just get sick of it. It’s nice to be alone, to fuck when you want.”

“Yeah, I actually wanna fuck right now.”


“I mean, I wanna fuck right now. I think we’re good enough friends to be able to just do that.”

We are not friends.

I almost cry right there.

I almost say no and then realize there’s no point.

How can this man who was so in love with me for so long, unrequited for the past 2 years, be so willing in his emotional psyche to not care how he’ll feel after not fucking me in 2 years.

We are all the container.

“OK, yeah. Let’s do it.”

His roommate’s door is open and the lights are on. I think again, how it doesn’t matter and I probably won’t make noise because he used to love how loud I was.

Music is on, I don’t know what it is but I’m glad.

He kisses me, and I push him away.


I say, trying to make him realize how we used to do this out of love.
He doesn’t seem to get or care about the connection and puts my legs around him.

Once, a long time ago, I had wrapped my legs so tight around him and he has screamed out,

“Those leggssssss!‘”. Now, he had placed them there.

It was quick, and I wanted it from behind.

After, I put my head on his chest, but hovered, I knew I would cry.

He got up and pissed and I went in after and shut the door,

pressed on my cheeks hard.

Squeeze out my little pain.

When I came back out the light was on and I searched for my clothes.

He started talking about liking sex better without a condom.

I dressed and said I wanted to smoke.

He followed me to the window and we talked more about nothing.

It felt like nothing had happened and I guess it really hadn’t.

Lady Gaga Bad Romance

Lady Gaga Bad Romance

I had to get out of there.

“Hmm, I gotta head out. Thanks for the food…and the fuck.”

He laughs and hugs me.

“Love ya. This was fun.”

“Yeah. Walk me out.”

At the door, he mumbles something I can’t remember and I feel like screaming.

Everything is so stupid.

Walking home, I take the alleys and cry.

I write a letter in my head to a friend I used to sleep with who was sort of sad like me,

“Do you ever feel that everything is so sick and masochistic? I think we live for mischief. We live and then we get bored and get ourselves into trouble just to do the same shit over again.”

I get home and don’t feel like crying anymore.

I pour a glass of whiskey,

sit on my window sill,

and watch cars go by.

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Jillian Rose Krupp converted to the philosophy of everything and nothing around 2 years ago. Since then, she believes in The Beatles, Angela Davis and sad french films. These beliefs have helped her to almost graduate with a college degree in a little over 5 years, but to spend much more time writing instead.

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