The Process

Jun 27, 2025
3 min read

by Jordyn Damato

I believe in love as much as I believe in any form of God above; below; or to the right of us. I believe in procreation and controlled-population; whatever’s necessary at the time; I understand the importance of marriage; of owning somebody to feel important; of owning somebody else to own anything at all. I understand why homes are built to house couples; to house families; I understand why husband and wife slept in separate beds until the 1950’s; don’t understand why they ever stopped. Your other half has everything you have: minus the same beliefs; minus the same interests; minus the same emotional capacity; plus the same passivity; minus the same rocky relationship with their parents; minus the same sleep schedules; the least we deserve is having enough room to sleep at night.

Learn the trick to being in love: don’t do it with a man. Don’t do it unless it: excites; changes; enthralls; motivates; exhausts; you. Go to church with her: don’t pretend that the holy water burns you when you walk in; don’t keep your eyes open during prayer; don’t put your pocket lint in the donation hat trying to impress her; don’t forget to say “amen” at the end of your prayer; don’t think about how if the pastor in front of you knew you licked every inch of the woman’s body sitting to the right of you, he would condemn you to Hell; don’t think about how the woman next to you doesn’t care if you were condemned to Hell; don’t think about her whispering the hot words in your ear: “it’s God’s plan.”

It’s been 94 days since you last went to church; 93 days since you last touched her; 8 days since you last spoke to her. You’re back to not believing in: love; God; sex; promises; breakfast in bed; hand on your leg as you drive; “how’d you sleep?”; joint playlists together. She called drunk 8 days ago; asking for a ride home; you’re in the middle of a card game: you fold. You quickly pack: water bottle; spinach and salami sandwich on a hamburger bun; puke bucket with extra bag; you know she’s not and never has been: a drinker.

|||

You’re driving: stoned. You: lost yourself; lost her; hope you don’t lose your license. You pick her up; she’s: in a better condition than you: thought. She’s: not puking; not hungry; “NoT dRuNk”; not wanting to talk. On the radio: a love song plays; you’re not listening; too high; she slams it off: “Can we not listen to that shit right now?” You: blink; you: drive; you: remember this is your car; you: turn the radio back up again; quietly.

||||

You: pull down her driveway. Her: “Thanks for not bothering me all the time anymore.” You: feel the blood in your cheeks; bite your lip; let out a sarcastic laugh; tell her: “Anytime.” She: gets out of the car. You: don’t wait for her to get inside. You: drive; drive; drive; drive; drive; drive; drive; drive; drive; drive;

Jordyn Damato is a writer, filmmaker, dreamer, in that order. She is currently an MFA Fiction Candidate at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Okay Donkey, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Allium Journal and Eunoia Review. Her favorite thing to do is hug.