Post by Deleted on Jan 31, 2013 5:18:46 GMT -6
November 2011 [continued]
I couldn’t imagine making a bigger fool of myself than I did tonight; the embarrassment is topped only by the feeling of betrayal that has made itself at home in the pit of my stomach. The door is slammed shut behind me as I enter my apartment, a move that is sure to raise the ire of my neighbours, that is, however, the least of my worries right now. I flick on the light switch to my right, hang my keys on the hook on the back of the door and slump down against it. The tears don’t flow just yet; my bottom lip, though, is quivering. The words bounce around my mind, She wanted me to invite you’. I assumed that meant that Sammy might have been crushing on me. At least that she wanted to meet me. Or even that she knew who I was.
None of those were the case. Sammy had no idea who I was; she laughed in my face when I told her I was happy she had invited me to her birthday; her blonde bobbing head and those harpy shrieks of laughter are memories that will never fade.
A tear rolls down my cheek, I hastily wipe it away with the sleeve of my blue and white checkered shirt and sniff, deeply, heavily, vainly trying to stifle the runny nose that has chosen to accompany the tears. How could she do that to me? Was it stupid of me to assume that Elsie was being kind to me when she invited me to her place of work for her friend’s birthday? Besides possibly getting to hook up with Sammy, I had thought that tonight might be my chance to get to know Elsie a bit better.
knock knock–knock comes the gentle rapping sound on my door followed by her voice, “Dom,” she slurs drunkenly. “I know you’re home, I can see the–hic–see the light on.”
I say nothing in response; a childish reaction, admittedly, but it’s my only hope that she might leave me alone. The rejection from Sammy I could take, it might take a while to get over the public humiliation factor, but girls have turned me down before and they will do for years to come. But for as long as I can remember the sight of my crush hanging off the arm of another man has always left a hollow feeling inside my chest.
“Dom.” She says again as she knocks on my door three more times.
“What?” I whimper as I stand back up. She asks to come in, slurring her words slightly, an effect of the copious amounts of rum she has consumed this evening. I wipe away the tears and any remnants of snot using my sleeve before relenting, opening the door for her. She’s holding herself up on the door frame, still managing to look radiant and beautiful even with her glassy eyes and ruffled hair. It takes a moment for her to push herself back to a vertical base, staggering slightly as she adjusts her two-tone purple banded top. “Thank you for coming tonight…” she drunkenly whispers into my ear before hugging me tightly. “I hope you had a nice time.”
Elsie kisses me gently on the cheek before walking away out of the apartment, closing the door behind her; not before I catch sight of her boyfriend glaring daggers at me. As angry as he is, I’m sure I’m even more confused.
“Finally, we enter the home stretch.” I say as I take a break from my normal routine - no pacing in an alley, no brooding in a dark room - this time I’m stood in front of an EXODUS Pro backdrop, a specially printed one with ‘#TwitterInvitational’ across it. Just so we’re all sure in which match I am partaking. “We’re less than two weeks away from ‘March of War’, less than two weeks from this six person elimination match. And–” I grin wickedly for the camera. “–we are finally drawing closer to the time when I get to show you all - to show the world - what the Tenacious Little Bastard can do in that ring.”
With the opening statement completed I pause briefly, stroking my stubble with thumb and forefinger, a devilish smile on my face. “And after finally coming face-to-face with you all in that ring last weekend I’m feeling–lets call it–confident. And whether you all want to admit it or not…” I noticeably roll my eyes as I continue talking. “…you recognize the talent that stands before you, you recognize the greatness that I possess. The awesomeness that’ll take me through this elimination match and onto a shot at Rourke’s International Championship. And in case you’re wondering, yes, it is the same awesomeness that prevents me impaling myself on a fence when I’m ‘training’.” I use air quotes as I have a dig at Jinzai’s unfortunate accident and have to stifle a chuckle before continuing.
“I’m intimidating, I know. And I can’t blame you, I mean, look at me!” A bold exclamation as I stand with my hands out by my side; my hair might be styled meticulously into a fauxhawk, and I’ve trimmed my stubble down to a reasonably short length, but for some reason I decided to wear a dirty white t-shirt today, a black zip-up top over it, zipped up half way, and some dark denim jeans with a hole in the right knee. “One look at this and Alexander thought it best to say one line then keep his damn trap shut. Graves got so flustered by the sight of me that all she could do was wave excitedly for the cameras–” naturally, I mock the gestures that Taryn made at the television taping. Five seconds is about as long as I can tolerate it before I cease waving. “You two crumbled under the pressure of that, stumbled at the first hurdle. And you still expect to get anything of this match?”
“I have one question for you, Alexander. When this Twitter Invitational is done and dusted, when I have beaten each and every one of you dumb enough to stand in my way. After I’ve beaten your indignant, irreparably ignorant ass from pillar to post! When I have shot for the king and hit my target…” I pause, shaking my head in disgust at the gall of Michael Alexander, calling himself a king. “I need to know, what sounds better. ‘Regicidal’ Dom Harter or Dom ‘The Kingslayer’ Harter.”
A sly smile edges the corners of my mouth upwards as I take a moment to smooth down the front of my top, adjusting the collar, straightening up the side that became lopsided during the waving a moment ago.
“It’s a personal belief of mine that there is a special circle reserved for people like you, Alexander. Past the unbaptized and the pagans, and past the lecherous malcontents. The gluttons and the greedy get to look down at you. The heretics, the wrathful and the traitors will glare at you with pity in their eyes!” A sneer crosses my face momentarily. “For you have earned your own reserved place in the pits of despair, Alexander. Your behaviour is beyond the pale, your attitude is incomprehensible. The Big L had to carry you to a victory over some sub-par diva wannabes, the type of women that drag down the image of female wrestlers everywhere and, unfortunately for you, he ain’t here to save you from this one. Lenton hasn’t got your back this week, your buddy Jinzai ain’t covering for you. You’re alone in there, boy, and when I am through with you, when Summer and Axel and Graves and Heather are through with you, you will welcome that special place in Hell.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, a slanted smile on my face as I pace to and fro for a couple of seconds. “It’ll be my pleasure to wipe that smug grin off his face, I only hope I can beat Summer to the punch. Which reminds me, Axel!” I exclaim loudly. “See, I bothered to learn your name this time. It seemed fitting considering I learnt all about your past last weekend. The torrid tale of your best friend and your wife, a vicious assault. Six years in prison and how you’ve emerged as a better man, a wholesome man…and look at all the f###s I give!”
Standing with my arms out to either side, an impassive look on my face as I stay like that for eight or nine seconds before resuming my slouched position. “I know you’re not the best wrestler in the match, Axel. We can all see that. It’s like saying the sun is yellow or the grass is green. And the best fighter? That’d be pushing it. Fear not, if you’re wanting help defining yourself, to find your niche in this brave new world, I have some things you can use to define yourself.” I say as I route around in my jeans pocket, digging deep before finally pulling out a folded up piece of paper. “Ahem.” Stalling for time as I unfold the paper, which takes an inexplicably long time. “Bryan Axel is the only person who couldn’t dial nine-one-one because he can’t find the eleven key. Bryan Axel couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Bryan Axel is as useful in the ring as a bucket with a hole in the bottom.”
I sigh in disgust as I scrunch up the paperwork and toss it down to one side. “I’m going to do you a favour though, Axel. I’m going to put your name in the record books. Because after I win at ‘March of War’ and I go on and beat Rourke and take her title; when I’m perched at the top of this ol’ tree, they’ll ask me, which opponent was my favourite to go up against. Who gave me, The Tenacious Little Bastard, the best match inside that squared circle. And I’ll have no choice but to point to this night at ‘March of War’, the night when I get to wipe that sanctimonious smirk off your grubby little face just like I get to with the king…”
My hands find their way to my jacket pockets, which I have neglected to mention until this moment. I’m slouching again, my shoulder sloped forward and head is hung low as I take a deep breath in. Now I have to talk about the women, to try and not sound like a chauvinistic pig. Without letting anything slip that I shouldn’t say. Loose lips sink ships, Dom.
“Summer, Graves, Heather.” I bide my time, listing their names slowly. “I think I know a little of what you’re thinking about me. Graves is probably expecting me to spew some chat up lines, to try and woo her.” I chuckle a little bit at that one. “Shoot me down once, shame on you. Shoot me down thirty six times, shame on me. The thing is, Graves, your entry in this competition is…suspect.” A shrug of the shoulders as I settle for the best word I could think of.
“But whatever you had to do to get in this competition, I’m sure it’ll be worth it…” well there goes the no chauvinism rule. “You get a first row seat to watch me as I earn my title match. Play your cards right and I’ll let you stand in my corner when I take on Rourke, when I pry that belt from her grip and assert myself as the International Champion. And when I have done that, when I have proven myself to be great, to be amazing, you might even have a change of heart. That ‘no’, the one that became a ‘maybe’, that might become a ‘yes’. You might just see me in a new light, a golden glow of championship glory.”
“Imagine it.” I whisper to the camera. “Because that scenario is a damn sight more likely than you walking out of this match victorious.” Another chuckle escapes my lips. “I’m a sweet talker, I know.”
“Who does that leave us?” I ask rhetorically as I pace back and forth in front of the backdrop once more. “Summer and Heather Halliwell…Heather.” I repeat her name as a giddy smile forms on my face, albeit briefly as I force myself to scowl. It’s no good, though. I turn away from the camera, looking back over one shoulder as I say. “I’ll come back to you two…”
With that I walk away out of shot, leaving the cameraman with no choice but to stop recording. Damn these feelings getting in the way of things; I’ll have to get used to them one day, learn how to control them.
Off-camera
The clock on the floor by my bed says it’s seven minutes past three. In the morning. And here I am, sat of the edge of my mattress, dressed only in a pair of black boxers briefs, with an empty carton of cigarettes in my hands. I smoked the last of them before new years so it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it’s disappointing nonetheless. I could do with a cigarette right about now.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” she asks me from across my studio apartment; she’s in the kitchen wearing my Rockin’ Riley t-shirt, one that is far too large for her.
“Nothing.” I answer bluntly, lying through my teeth while I do so. The cigarette packet, formerly recognisable as a pack of Belvederes before I picked off most of the wrapper, is tossed casually aside as I rest my head in my hands. She grabs two green glass bottles from the fridge, some beer I found along the way, as she brings them back over to where I’m sat.
“I think you’re lying.” She says playfully before opening one of the bottles using her teeth. Yeah, that draws an odd glance from me. As she does it again for the second bottle I visibly wince before replying to he statement, “And I think I don’t pay you to talk.”
Way to be a pig, Dom. “Sorry.” I say as her pout fades; she brushes back the loose strands of her raven black hair so that they rest behind one of her ears. And, at that moment, the light from the lamp at the end of the bed hits her just right. The way it makes her chestnut brown eyes glow, makes them so wide, so deep and vibrant, it’s enough to make me melt a little inside. To relive some of the more pleasant memories of our time together. I cradle her face with one hand, using the other to drink some beer before speaking. “You look as beautiful as I remember you.”
“Aww…” she replies, trying desperately not to show outwardly how she finds that ever so slightly creepy. “Thank you.” I see her glancing towards the clock as we drink in awkward silence. “So,” she breaks the silence, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong or should I be going?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I bark in a hushed tone. “Not with you. I can’t talk about this with you.”
“Then, I’d better be going.” She pouts as she stands back up and goes to grab her clothes from the various places around the apartment. “Fine.” I say as she stops in her tracks, in fact she walks back over to me and kneels down in front of me, looking expectantly for something deep and meaningful. She’s going to be disappointed. “Have you ever had to choose between following your head and your heart?”
Before she has a chance to reply I continue, “I know I shouldn’t; there’s no chance of it happening, let alone working out. But…” my voice trails off as I stare down at the floor, shaking my head in disbelief at the quandary I’ve found myself in. “I thought I was through with this sort of thing.”
“If you want it, go for it.” She says after a while. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“What’s the worst…” I break off with a chuckle. The scenarios running through my head vary in magnitude; they range from her saying yes and we, maybe, have a few months, possibly a year or two happy before I inevitably screw it up like I always do. And I lose her. Or she just straight out rejects me, slaps me for suggesting it. An alternative is a drink of some sort gets thrown in my face. Or the worst I can imagine right now, the one that scares me more than anything is the possibility that she says no and accuses me, wrongly, of faking our friendship just so I could get close to her. She’s been kind to me, warm even. And friendly, so very friendly. And we’ve talked for hours, spent the day together. I don’t want her to–nay, I couldn’t stand her thinking any of that had been a ploy to get close to her.
I inhale deeply through my nose before finally admitting what I consider to be the worst thing, “I could hurt her feelings.” And I can feel the women judging me right now as she says that she should be going now. She picks up her clothes and redresses herself as I lie back down on the mattress, curled up in the foetal position under my comforter. I’ll have to follow my head on this one.
I couldn’t imagine making a bigger fool of myself than I did tonight; the embarrassment is topped only by the feeling of betrayal that has made itself at home in the pit of my stomach. The door is slammed shut behind me as I enter my apartment, a move that is sure to raise the ire of my neighbours, that is, however, the least of my worries right now. I flick on the light switch to my right, hang my keys on the hook on the back of the door and slump down against it. The tears don’t flow just yet; my bottom lip, though, is quivering. The words bounce around my mind, She wanted me to invite you’. I assumed that meant that Sammy might have been crushing on me. At least that she wanted to meet me. Or even that she knew who I was.
None of those were the case. Sammy had no idea who I was; she laughed in my face when I told her I was happy she had invited me to her birthday; her blonde bobbing head and those harpy shrieks of laughter are memories that will never fade.
A tear rolls down my cheek, I hastily wipe it away with the sleeve of my blue and white checkered shirt and sniff, deeply, heavily, vainly trying to stifle the runny nose that has chosen to accompany the tears. How could she do that to me? Was it stupid of me to assume that Elsie was being kind to me when she invited me to her place of work for her friend’s birthday? Besides possibly getting to hook up with Sammy, I had thought that tonight might be my chance to get to know Elsie a bit better.
knock knock–knock comes the gentle rapping sound on my door followed by her voice, “Dom,” she slurs drunkenly. “I know you’re home, I can see the–hic–see the light on.”
I say nothing in response; a childish reaction, admittedly, but it’s my only hope that she might leave me alone. The rejection from Sammy I could take, it might take a while to get over the public humiliation factor, but girls have turned me down before and they will do for years to come. But for as long as I can remember the sight of my crush hanging off the arm of another man has always left a hollow feeling inside my chest.
“Dom.” She says again as she knocks on my door three more times.
“What?” I whimper as I stand back up. She asks to come in, slurring her words slightly, an effect of the copious amounts of rum she has consumed this evening. I wipe away the tears and any remnants of snot using my sleeve before relenting, opening the door for her. She’s holding herself up on the door frame, still managing to look radiant and beautiful even with her glassy eyes and ruffled hair. It takes a moment for her to push herself back to a vertical base, staggering slightly as she adjusts her two-tone purple banded top. “Thank you for coming tonight…” she drunkenly whispers into my ear before hugging me tightly. “I hope you had a nice time.”
Elsie kisses me gently on the cheek before walking away out of the apartment, closing the door behind her; not before I catch sight of her boyfriend glaring daggers at me. As angry as he is, I’m sure I’m even more confused.
“Finally, we enter the home stretch.” I say as I take a break from my normal routine - no pacing in an alley, no brooding in a dark room - this time I’m stood in front of an EXODUS Pro backdrop, a specially printed one with ‘#TwitterInvitational’ across it. Just so we’re all sure in which match I am partaking. “We’re less than two weeks away from ‘March of War’, less than two weeks from this six person elimination match. And–” I grin wickedly for the camera. “–we are finally drawing closer to the time when I get to show you all - to show the world - what the Tenacious Little Bastard can do in that ring.”
With the opening statement completed I pause briefly, stroking my stubble with thumb and forefinger, a devilish smile on my face. “And after finally coming face-to-face with you all in that ring last weekend I’m feeling–lets call it–confident. And whether you all want to admit it or not…” I noticeably roll my eyes as I continue talking. “…you recognize the talent that stands before you, you recognize the greatness that I possess. The awesomeness that’ll take me through this elimination match and onto a shot at Rourke’s International Championship. And in case you’re wondering, yes, it is the same awesomeness that prevents me impaling myself on a fence when I’m ‘training’.” I use air quotes as I have a dig at Jinzai’s unfortunate accident and have to stifle a chuckle before continuing.
“I’m intimidating, I know. And I can’t blame you, I mean, look at me!” A bold exclamation as I stand with my hands out by my side; my hair might be styled meticulously into a fauxhawk, and I’ve trimmed my stubble down to a reasonably short length, but for some reason I decided to wear a dirty white t-shirt today, a black zip-up top over it, zipped up half way, and some dark denim jeans with a hole in the right knee. “One look at this and Alexander thought it best to say one line then keep his damn trap shut. Graves got so flustered by the sight of me that all she could do was wave excitedly for the cameras–” naturally, I mock the gestures that Taryn made at the television taping. Five seconds is about as long as I can tolerate it before I cease waving. “You two crumbled under the pressure of that, stumbled at the first hurdle. And you still expect to get anything of this match?”
“I have one question for you, Alexander. When this Twitter Invitational is done and dusted, when I have beaten each and every one of you dumb enough to stand in my way. After I’ve beaten your indignant, irreparably ignorant ass from pillar to post! When I have shot for the king and hit my target…” I pause, shaking my head in disgust at the gall of Michael Alexander, calling himself a king. “I need to know, what sounds better. ‘Regicidal’ Dom Harter or Dom ‘The Kingslayer’ Harter.”
A sly smile edges the corners of my mouth upwards as I take a moment to smooth down the front of my top, adjusting the collar, straightening up the side that became lopsided during the waving a moment ago.
“It’s a personal belief of mine that there is a special circle reserved for people like you, Alexander. Past the unbaptized and the pagans, and past the lecherous malcontents. The gluttons and the greedy get to look down at you. The heretics, the wrathful and the traitors will glare at you with pity in their eyes!” A sneer crosses my face momentarily. “For you have earned your own reserved place in the pits of despair, Alexander. Your behaviour is beyond the pale, your attitude is incomprehensible. The Big L had to carry you to a victory over some sub-par diva wannabes, the type of women that drag down the image of female wrestlers everywhere and, unfortunately for you, he ain’t here to save you from this one. Lenton hasn’t got your back this week, your buddy Jinzai ain’t covering for you. You’re alone in there, boy, and when I am through with you, when Summer and Axel and Graves and Heather are through with you, you will welcome that special place in Hell.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, a slanted smile on my face as I pace to and fro for a couple of seconds. “It’ll be my pleasure to wipe that smug grin off his face, I only hope I can beat Summer to the punch. Which reminds me, Axel!” I exclaim loudly. “See, I bothered to learn your name this time. It seemed fitting considering I learnt all about your past last weekend. The torrid tale of your best friend and your wife, a vicious assault. Six years in prison and how you’ve emerged as a better man, a wholesome man…and look at all the f###s I give!”
Standing with my arms out to either side, an impassive look on my face as I stay like that for eight or nine seconds before resuming my slouched position. “I know you’re not the best wrestler in the match, Axel. We can all see that. It’s like saying the sun is yellow or the grass is green. And the best fighter? That’d be pushing it. Fear not, if you’re wanting help defining yourself, to find your niche in this brave new world, I have some things you can use to define yourself.” I say as I route around in my jeans pocket, digging deep before finally pulling out a folded up piece of paper. “Ahem.” Stalling for time as I unfold the paper, which takes an inexplicably long time. “Bryan Axel is the only person who couldn’t dial nine-one-one because he can’t find the eleven key. Bryan Axel couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Bryan Axel is as useful in the ring as a bucket with a hole in the bottom.”
I sigh in disgust as I scrunch up the paperwork and toss it down to one side. “I’m going to do you a favour though, Axel. I’m going to put your name in the record books. Because after I win at ‘March of War’ and I go on and beat Rourke and take her title; when I’m perched at the top of this ol’ tree, they’ll ask me, which opponent was my favourite to go up against. Who gave me, The Tenacious Little Bastard, the best match inside that squared circle. And I’ll have no choice but to point to this night at ‘March of War’, the night when I get to wipe that sanctimonious smirk off your grubby little face just like I get to with the king…”
My hands find their way to my jacket pockets, which I have neglected to mention until this moment. I’m slouching again, my shoulder sloped forward and head is hung low as I take a deep breath in. Now I have to talk about the women, to try and not sound like a chauvinistic pig. Without letting anything slip that I shouldn’t say. Loose lips sink ships, Dom.
“Summer, Graves, Heather.” I bide my time, listing their names slowly. “I think I know a little of what you’re thinking about me. Graves is probably expecting me to spew some chat up lines, to try and woo her.” I chuckle a little bit at that one. “Shoot me down once, shame on you. Shoot me down thirty six times, shame on me. The thing is, Graves, your entry in this competition is…suspect.” A shrug of the shoulders as I settle for the best word I could think of.
“But whatever you had to do to get in this competition, I’m sure it’ll be worth it…” well there goes the no chauvinism rule. “You get a first row seat to watch me as I earn my title match. Play your cards right and I’ll let you stand in my corner when I take on Rourke, when I pry that belt from her grip and assert myself as the International Champion. And when I have done that, when I have proven myself to be great, to be amazing, you might even have a change of heart. That ‘no’, the one that became a ‘maybe’, that might become a ‘yes’. You might just see me in a new light, a golden glow of championship glory.”
“Imagine it.” I whisper to the camera. “Because that scenario is a damn sight more likely than you walking out of this match victorious.” Another chuckle escapes my lips. “I’m a sweet talker, I know.”
“Who does that leave us?” I ask rhetorically as I pace back and forth in front of the backdrop once more. “Summer and Heather Halliwell…Heather.” I repeat her name as a giddy smile forms on my face, albeit briefly as I force myself to scowl. It’s no good, though. I turn away from the camera, looking back over one shoulder as I say. “I’ll come back to you two…”
With that I walk away out of shot, leaving the cameraman with no choice but to stop recording. Damn these feelings getting in the way of things; I’ll have to get used to them one day, learn how to control them.
Off-camera
The clock on the floor by my bed says it’s seven minutes past three. In the morning. And here I am, sat of the edge of my mattress, dressed only in a pair of black boxers briefs, with an empty carton of cigarettes in my hands. I smoked the last of them before new years so it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it’s disappointing nonetheless. I could do with a cigarette right about now.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” she asks me from across my studio apartment; she’s in the kitchen wearing my Rockin’ Riley t-shirt, one that is far too large for her.
“Nothing.” I answer bluntly, lying through my teeth while I do so. The cigarette packet, formerly recognisable as a pack of Belvederes before I picked off most of the wrapper, is tossed casually aside as I rest my head in my hands. She grabs two green glass bottles from the fridge, some beer I found along the way, as she brings them back over to where I’m sat.
“I think you’re lying.” She says playfully before opening one of the bottles using her teeth. Yeah, that draws an odd glance from me. As she does it again for the second bottle I visibly wince before replying to he statement, “And I think I don’t pay you to talk.”
Way to be a pig, Dom. “Sorry.” I say as her pout fades; she brushes back the loose strands of her raven black hair so that they rest behind one of her ears. And, at that moment, the light from the lamp at the end of the bed hits her just right. The way it makes her chestnut brown eyes glow, makes them so wide, so deep and vibrant, it’s enough to make me melt a little inside. To relive some of the more pleasant memories of our time together. I cradle her face with one hand, using the other to drink some beer before speaking. “You look as beautiful as I remember you.”
“Aww…” she replies, trying desperately not to show outwardly how she finds that ever so slightly creepy. “Thank you.” I see her glancing towards the clock as we drink in awkward silence. “So,” she breaks the silence, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong or should I be going?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I bark in a hushed tone. “Not with you. I can’t talk about this with you.”
“Then, I’d better be going.” She pouts as she stands back up and goes to grab her clothes from the various places around the apartment. “Fine.” I say as she stops in her tracks, in fact she walks back over to me and kneels down in front of me, looking expectantly for something deep and meaningful. She’s going to be disappointed. “Have you ever had to choose between following your head and your heart?”
Before she has a chance to reply I continue, “I know I shouldn’t; there’s no chance of it happening, let alone working out. But…” my voice trails off as I stare down at the floor, shaking my head in disbelief at the quandary I’ve found myself in. “I thought I was through with this sort of thing.”
“If you want it, go for it.” She says after a while. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“What’s the worst…” I break off with a chuckle. The scenarios running through my head vary in magnitude; they range from her saying yes and we, maybe, have a few months, possibly a year or two happy before I inevitably screw it up like I always do. And I lose her. Or she just straight out rejects me, slaps me for suggesting it. An alternative is a drink of some sort gets thrown in my face. Or the worst I can imagine right now, the one that scares me more than anything is the possibility that she says no and accuses me, wrongly, of faking our friendship just so I could get close to her. She’s been kind to me, warm even. And friendly, so very friendly. And we’ve talked for hours, spent the day together. I don’t want her to–nay, I couldn’t stand her thinking any of that had been a ploy to get close to her.
I inhale deeply through my nose before finally admitting what I consider to be the worst thing, “I could hurt her feelings.” And I can feel the women judging me right now as she says that she should be going now. She picks up her clothes and redresses herself as I lie back down on the mattress, curled up in the foetal position under my comforter. I’ll have to follow my head on this one.