“You’re going to be a writer?”
My eyes didn’t know where to look when the words left her mouth like a heavy amount of bullets, flying past her stupid lips in my general direction. They caught my ears all at once and without being able to compute correctly, drove my eyes to blink once, twice… Three times. I felt each individual lash brush my cheek in the slow reaction. For one of the first times in my life I had no words. The question was saturated in patronization and hung heavy in the air as if we were stuck in an awkward frame of some comic.
Something tightened in my chest that vaguely reminded me of this terrible contraption that existed in my mouth during my middle school days. When I had braces on my teeth I also had something called a pallet expander. During every visit to my orthodontist he would stick a small key into the hole on the expander. Once the key was in place he would turn it and the movement would cause the plate to press my teeth outward to correct overcrowding. The feeling of the key turning and the one her words elicited in my chest were very similar. The exception was everything felt tight and certainly overcrowded in my chest. The teeth of my heart were living in an overlapping state. Like the pallet expander, just ass fucking backward.
A breath danced inside of me awkwardly for a moment while I remembered how to breathe. A thought set in. She thinks I’m a fraud. A hack. A fake. Fuck me.
She stood in the doorway of the bedroom having just returned from the kitchen, in nothing but her underwear and my brand new Descendants tshirt. I wasn’t even intrigued anymore and I wondered for a moment if she could tell. My dick, heart, and mind were all equally uninspired. My head is a cracked snowglobe with all of its holiday cheer leaking right out of the glass wound. I wanted to request that she take my tshirt off now before we decided to part ways in a fit of rage and yelling. She would conveniently forget to return my shirt and I would have to buy another or never speak of it to anyone. I hadn’t even had a chance to wear the goddamn thing.
I felt my gaze grow heavy and hollow, empty and dead. I shook my head to wake something up inside and wash away the glaze that had formed over my eyes. The life seeped back into them slowly.
“Wait… You were joking?”
She emits this high pitched squeal and then a giggle, both comparable to a bird or maybe even a small dog. When you kick it on accident at three in the morning on your blind trip to the bathroom. It offends my ears to such an extent that my imagination flashes an image of my eardrums bleeding profusely until I’m soaked in the warm liquid. Its so beautiful and honestly? Pretty welcoming given my current situation.
“No. I am.”
The first words I can bring to say since her vicious response and they leave me with the desire to be vaporized on the spot. Her ignorance toward my feelings is both astonishingly impressive and terribly depressing. Her thighs twitch and I try my damnedest to not roll my eyes at her pathetic efforts. Nothing did anything for me anymore.
I drag myself to a sitting position, propped up by the old faux leather headboard left behind by the previously upsetting relationship. The one that sent me into this awkward, flip flop of fucking and dumping as soon as possible. I watched her stretch and Milo’s poor black horn rimmed glasses rose and fell on my shirt, on her body. My eyes roll to stare at the ceiling and the familiar stagnant deadness returns to them like a thick milky film.
Even without my eyes on her I can predict what she’s doing. This isn’t hard and I’ve been able to assume these things about multiple girls for the last three months. She’s pulling her underwear from her crack where it has been lodged only to be pulled back up into her crack because that is the retarded way us men expect women to wear their underwear for us. I say wear something comfortable so I can stop thinking about crack picking and why it happens.
I can feel every odd textured vein in the leathery fraud bedframe pressing into the pale skin stretched over my back like a canvas,mapping out some secret city no one knows about. I imagine each one a mysterious exit from my current station. I’d hop on the first train to arrive that would bring me far, far away to a place where I don’t wonder why I rail dumb women that don’t support me in any way. Because I wouldn’t be doing it. Any train that would take me to a place where I don’t have to worry about trying to make a relationship work. A place where-
“I mean,” if you’ve ever heard Sandra Bullock’s giggle snort, she does an awful rendition of that right here. “What will your stories even be like?”
I’ve handled hangovers more manageable than this broad. My head lulls to the side to look at her again. Trying to think of something poetic and intimidating to prove myself to her, I come up with nothing impressive to offer. And more holiday cheer leaks from a new laceration. And the leathery veins stretch themselves further. And my eyes glaze over with somehow even more disinterest. I could tell her that her lips could make men fall to their knees and that she belongs in every book I ever write. I could promise her she would be and I would make men and women alike pine after her for years and years. She would be my muse and make for the perfect love interest. Except it would be all foolish to say because it wouldn’t mean a thing to her.
“‘It was summer, dry and depressing. Her hair fell past her narrow shoulders and she decorated it with flowers and misfortune. I drank until I thought my liver would surely burst.’ Am I right? Oh please, Gregory!”
The temperature in the room climbed steeply as I heard my own voice in hers, my own vernacular being twisted and used to cut me down and second guess myself. She used all of the correct words. Every one of those I would have hand picked myself if given the chance. My stomach turned and folded in on itself. My face must have done something similar because she was shrieking and laughing yet again. My breathing did that awkward dance in my chest once more and my thick, dark brows rose far up my forehead. The air around me felt heavy and difficult to take in. I inhaled with great effort.
My Descendants shirt hung on her bony shoulders and dared me to tell her to get the fuck out. I’ve been here in this spot before and I’ll be here again- the girl in the doorway always takes off with whatever article of clothing that isn’t hers. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, digging in where I normally do, causing a familiar sting. A sting that puts me in my place and makes me think about the pain rather than running my stupid mouth. I wince and wait for giggle fest 2015 to seize.
As the laughter rattles through her body I notice how the stark white shirt stands out against her skin. Milo and his ridiculous glasses in black. The Descendants block lettering below his floating shoulders. It was pretty new, holding no memories or feelings except for right now. No way would it become a favorite, its future in my closet doomed. I bit into my lip harder, felt the sting, and weighed my options.
Begrudgingly my fingers begin to dance and stretch blindly across the frontier of my recently slept in bed. Passing over saliva stained pillow cases, blanket folds and sheets. I keep reaching, keep feeling until I find a strap. I hook two fingers around the strap and with a little more effort than I enjoy putting into anything at this early hour, I huck her lacy, neon bra in the doorways general direction. The over the shoulder bolder holder smacks into her chest, her free floating, strange tits just below Milo’s poor, nerdy face. Next is her pants that stop sadly a little short of her.
She blinks dramatically once, twice.. Three times before she realizes what has just happened and grabs her things in a frenzy. She’s babbling about how much I suck and how much I’m totally going to regret this. I just want her out faster so I can write about her. Just as she’s about to walk out, her stupid shoes still getting slipped on with difficulty as she goes-
“I hate you Gregory Thelms!”
Her words are stingy and sealed by the slamming of my door. I slide down the pleather headboard with some effort and stare into my ceiling trying to decide what the fuck i just dealt with. I have to wonder if this is how Han felt that one time Leia said she loved him or if the feelings really are polar opposites. My eyes close and give into the dead gaze behind their lids.
This is exactly how my stories will go.