syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
The first part is always best. That part where it’s past the just fucking stage, where you actually begin to believe that she is truly what you are looking for, where there is still enough curiosity to keep you interested. The part before you learn all the terrible things that eventually drive the two of you apart. The part where she still thinks all your drunken antics are amusing, or at least tolerable That part just before all her cute little habits like, chewing on her bottom lip when she has something to say but doesn’t want to say it, become annoying. That part is always best.
Sitting across from her at the West End, your uneaten plate of food in front of you, her chewing on her god damn bottom lip, you sadly realize that part is over.
Reluctantly you ask, what is it?
Is this all we’re going to do tonight?
What do you want to do?
I don’t know.
And now you are just one step away from asking her;
What the fuck do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you what to do? Do you want me to read your fucking mind? Is it my fault you chew on your bottom lip rather than saying how you feel? If you’re bored, fucking say so. Just don’t make me guess anymore.
Just the same, you don’t say it though. Because somewhere in the back of the confused and messy place you call your mind, there is still a hope that this can all work out. A tiny little light that has yet to be blown out by her leaving her soaking wet towels on the bathroom floor.
We could go dancing.
Oh Christ, the fucking clubs. Twelve dollar doubles, shitty dance music making it impossible to talk, dreadfully weak coke and fake ecstasy, can’t even get to the bar to throw away twelve dollars on a double Jack, please for fuck’s sake not again, you think.
It’s the end of the month babe. I’m about tapped. We can’t really afford a night at the clubs.
You don’t have to drink so much. It’s a rip off there anyway. We could make it a cheap night.
Oh my God baby! I can barely see you up there. How did you get so high and mighty? I can scarcely remember a night we’ve been out where you haven’t been ordering six dollar martinis and doing blow from any guy who thinks you’ll let him smell your panties.
Of course none of this is said either. That kind of honesty hasn’t been earned nor is it allowed so soon after the best part. You are not allowed to tell her to stop chewing on her fucking bottom lip just yet, and she isn’t allowed to tell you all the things she is beginning to hate about you.
I’m really just not up to it tonight, you say instead.
And with that she is back to her lip.
You order another double Jack and coke and pray it’s exactly like her chewing on her lip. You stop talking as you drink it in hopes that she realizes you are drinking it instead of saying what you want to say. Already you are deliberately trying to hurt her. You’re just not saying it yet.
After a few more drinks, and you pay the bill, the two of you begin the short trip home. Walking home with her arm laced through yours, her head on your shoulders, and the cold wind blowing her hair, you are reminded of how it was just a short time ago.
I’m really tired, she says, trying to keep pace with you in the cold night.
And for some reason when she says this, the happiness is gone, replaced by the sadness. The sadness that feels like something so deserved, the price of some long forgotten sin
You imagine yourself falling on your knees in front of her on the cold sidewalk and begging,
Don’t you see we’re losing it. Can’t you see yourself getting bored, getting tired of me. We’ve still got a few good moments left, but if we don’t tell each other all those things we’re thinking while bitting our lips and shooting whiskey we’re never gonna make it. Don’t you see that?
Instead you pull her a little closer, as if that will solve anything, and walk on.
You wonder if this will be the night. The first night you don’t fuck before sleeping. It has certainly begun to feel that way. The thought of looking into her bored eyes as you do another drunken run through makes you feel terrible. The thought of her looking back into your eyes and seeing the same thing makes you feel even worse.
Walking into the warm house, she turns on the TV.
Oh I love this show! Come watch it with me.
I hate this fucking shit. The best part is over anyway.
It just came on.
I don’t feel so well, too much whiskey. I think I’m going to get some sleep.
You kiss her lightly on her lips and walk back to the bedroom.
Sitting across from her at the West End, your uneaten plate of food in front of you, her chewing on her god damn bottom lip, you sadly realize that part is over.
Reluctantly you ask, what is it?
Is this all we’re going to do tonight?
What do you want to do?
I don’t know.
And now you are just one step away from asking her;
What the fuck do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you what to do? Do you want me to read your fucking mind? Is it my fault you chew on your bottom lip rather than saying how you feel? If you’re bored, fucking say so. Just don’t make me guess anymore.
Just the same, you don’t say it though. Because somewhere in the back of the confused and messy place you call your mind, there is still a hope that this can all work out. A tiny little light that has yet to be blown out by her leaving her soaking wet towels on the bathroom floor.
We could go dancing.
Oh Christ, the fucking clubs. Twelve dollar doubles, shitty dance music making it impossible to talk, dreadfully weak coke and fake ecstasy, can’t even get to the bar to throw away twelve dollars on a double Jack, please for fuck’s sake not again, you think.
It’s the end of the month babe. I’m about tapped. We can’t really afford a night at the clubs.
You don’t have to drink so much. It’s a rip off there anyway. We could make it a cheap night.
Oh my God baby! I can barely see you up there. How did you get so high and mighty? I can scarcely remember a night we’ve been out where you haven’t been ordering six dollar martinis and doing blow from any guy who thinks you’ll let him smell your panties.
Of course none of this is said either. That kind of honesty hasn’t been earned nor is it allowed so soon after the best part. You are not allowed to tell her to stop chewing on her fucking bottom lip just yet, and she isn’t allowed to tell you all the things she is beginning to hate about you.
I’m really just not up to it tonight, you say instead.
And with that she is back to her lip.
You order another double Jack and coke and pray it’s exactly like her chewing on her lip. You stop talking as you drink it in hopes that she realizes you are drinking it instead of saying what you want to say. Already you are deliberately trying to hurt her. You’re just not saying it yet.
After a few more drinks, and you pay the bill, the two of you begin the short trip home. Walking home with her arm laced through yours, her head on your shoulders, and the cold wind blowing her hair, you are reminded of how it was just a short time ago.
I’m really tired, she says, trying to keep pace with you in the cold night.
And for some reason when she says this, the happiness is gone, replaced by the sadness. The sadness that feels like something so deserved, the price of some long forgotten sin
You imagine yourself falling on your knees in front of her on the cold sidewalk and begging,
Don’t you see we’re losing it. Can’t you see yourself getting bored, getting tired of me. We’ve still got a few good moments left, but if we don’t tell each other all those things we’re thinking while bitting our lips and shooting whiskey we’re never gonna make it. Don’t you see that?
Instead you pull her a little closer, as if that will solve anything, and walk on.
You wonder if this will be the night. The first night you don’t fuck before sleeping. It has certainly begun to feel that way. The thought of looking into her bored eyes as you do another drunken run through makes you feel terrible. The thought of her looking back into your eyes and seeing the same thing makes you feel even worse.
Walking into the warm house, she turns on the TV.
Oh I love this show! Come watch it with me.
I hate this fucking shit. The best part is over anyway.
It just came on.
I don’t feel so well, too much whiskey. I think I’m going to get some sleep.
You kiss her lightly on her lips and walk back to the bedroom.
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