Valentines: “no one calls when your situationship dies” by Jun Chou
no one calls when your situationship dies
You guessed his obituary would dictate the root of his youthful demise as tapeworm or salmonella, but in the end, it was sepsis. From a dog bite! Like that beautiful actress with wide eyes from Triangle of Sadness, a forgettable movie, except for a scene where a buncha rich people throw up on a boat. Our bodies are so fragile. Yet others survive a bullet through the brain. When you didn’t hear from Ricky, you figured he was just ghosting. You even sent a risky follow-up: a selfie with a slice of Joe’s between your double D’s. Easy bait. Ricky loved pizza. Ricky loved tits. He would never refuse an opportunity to lick marinara off your nips! That shoulda been the first clue. You’re reading Ricky’s obituary because Tyler, who used to date Other Tyler, mentions some guy who eats raw meat on TikTok died from a freak accident. No shit, you say. RawRicky? But you know before you ask, because how many raw meat guys are there, really. In the video Ricky goes viral for, he eats five sheep hearts: one for every girl who broke his heart. You watch the video most mornings. It’s weirdly soothing. What is decorum when your situationship dies? You saw Ricky once a month at most. It’s not like his life, or death, bangs a dent in your life. Your social circles form no Venn. He was a stranger. The raw meat stuff only came up because he went soft once with his hot dog in your bun. I was distracted cuz the butcher closes soon, he apologized. His cheeks were puffy and red, either from the sex or embarrassment. You say it’s okay, even offer to walk with him to pick up his meats. After all, it was nice he asked. The butcher greeted Ricky with a sloppy Italian kiss on the mouth and a meat-stained bear hug. He cut you up a slice of fresh prosciutto, so thin your tongue absorbed it immediately. The sky was dark mode by the time you left. Together, a marvel at the Pleiades. Ricky walked you to Astor Pl, his hands busy with unfrozen meat. He kissed you goodnight and you noticed grey speckled in his beard for the first time. Four days after the news of Ricky’s death, you stroll the East Village in a fur coat and a lingering guilt in your sternum. You can’t decode it. It's not as if you killed the guy. Though it does make you sad to hear the funeral already happened. Suppose it woulda been nice to meet the little sister he was always talking about, the one who makes ceramic igloos for her pet turtle. Maybe the guilt is for that half-hearted, late-night, too-drunk, half-hard blowjob—likely the last he ever got—where you bobbed and bobbed until eventually you came up for air and saw he was already asleep. His face was always blank—so at peace—as he slept. As you pass Ricky’s block, you wonder if his butcher knows he’s dead. You make a left. You should probably go tell him.
About Jun Chou
Jun Chou is a Brooklyn-based writer and Asian American Writers' Workshop 2025 Margins Fellow. Her writing has appeared in Electric Literature, Cake Zine, Hobart, Third Place Zine, and Ricepaper Magazine. She is also a regular contributor to The Creative Independent. During the day, she improves recipe discovery for The New York Times Cooking. Other times you can find her belting karaoke, adding to her Letterboxd, rock climbing, or drafting her debut novel. You can find her on Twitter & Instagram @junnotjune.
