sometimes we are friends in my mind.

Sometimes I can admit that I was a terrible roommate. A terrible friend, even. I stole your protein bars. I snuck into your room more than a few times to look in your mirror and eat from the pack of Oreos you had on your nightstand. Yes, I walked your dog, but I always did it begrudgingly. 

We went to estate sales and the farmers market together. You, against my protests, drove me to the hospital when you thought I had a concussion. We couldn’t help but laugh when the welfare lady came in to ask me all those questions because the nurse saw my back was covered in bruises. They were hickeys from my ex-boyfriend. We took her pamphlets anyway, because in between the papers on domestic violence were addresses for local food banks and phone numbers for utility bill assistance. We were so poor and needed all the help we could get. Within the first week of living together, we already had to scrounge up all the change to our name, take it to the coin machine at the grocery store, and just hope it gave us enough cash to turn our water back on. It didn’t. But the lady at the water company took pity and sent us $50.

You were in my dream last night. You smiled when you saw me, and I knew you had forgiven me. We talked as if nothing had happened. I wonder how much you dream of me. Probably not at all. You were one of the two people who called me while I was in the psych ward. You held me and rocked me during my panic attacks. I french braided your hair before work. I invited my ex to live with us for a week because he didn’t have anywhere to stay in between leases. I didn’t even ask you. But maybe I wish I did. You cut my hair and dyed my eyebrows when I got broken up with. I was the one who encouraged you to go on that first date with your boyfriend. But he embarrassed you at your birthday party in front of all your friends. He made you cry because he’s mean when he gets too drunk.  He moved in as soon as I moved out.

I want to tell you I’m sorry all the time. It had been six months since I moved out and blocked you on everything, and then I found out we would be working together. As expected, I was nervous, but oddly, I felt relieved. I made myself out to be the victim. The victim of you. That’s the story I told my boyfriend, our shared coworkers and anyone who would listen because I was embarrassed by who I was when I lived with you. I wanted to leave it all behind and you became my scapegoat. I remember the head server asking me to check on you as you packed up a catering order. I walked over and asked if you were okay, and of course you said you were and thanked me for asking. I got fired the next morning, on your recommendation, but hearing your voice again the day before made me realize that I wanted to be your friend. I always wanted to be your friend. I was jealous when your best friend moved in and you stopped hanging out with me. I was sad when you talked about wanting to move back to Chattanooga because you hated living in Birmingham so much. I envied you as you went on vacation and I was stuck working 50-hour weeks at the most taxing job I’ve ever had in my life while you were a server at a wealthy country club. I loathed you when I had to pick up your dog’s shit off the dining room floor even though I never agreed to take care of him. I hated the stupid country music you would always play and the annoying coworkers — who were really just drug addicts — you invited to our house all the time. And I despised your dumb, obligatory, three-page-long chore chart you hung on the fridge. But when you made me homemade cinnamon rolls on my birthday and let me hang out with your friends when you knew I didn’t have any and when we went grocery shopping using my food stamps and when you listened to me talk about my mom, I loved you more than you ever knew. I loved you when I pretended to hate you. You put up with me, and that’s how I know you loved me too.