Week 4: Fags

12 Dec

         What the heck was I thinking? I imagined I could just make up this completely off-kilter character for the writing assignment. Have him run around telling people not to touch this or that, not to listen to this song, watch that movie, dance this way or think along that line because it reminded him of a girl. The girl. And he did it right enough, to the point where he got so emotionally instable I had to go out for a fag to calm my own nerves. I can’t really explain what happened. He wasn’t even like me. I made sure of that. He had a PhD in Applied Psychology, an attic filled with lost love memorabilia and a really fucked up inner life. Me? I’m barely out of college, heavy smoker and the closest I’ve been to love was when I got my first blowjob, practically eons ago. So I sat in the shriveling cold and pulled on my fag, trying to figure out what unsettled me so much that I’d rather face the cold than write one more word coming out of that guy’s mouth.

         I couldn’t find a logical, down-to-earth reason. My brain buzzed and I felt faint so I thought of going back and squished the rest of my fag underfoot, stomping from left to right, in a flowing, circular motion. And that’s about when my lungs stopped working.

         I tried to take a deep breath—deep, deep, deeper damn it! What the fuck’s going on? Why can’t I breathe prope— WHAT’SWRONGWITHME?! Just so you know, it’s not true. My life didn’t flash before my eyes as I collapsed in a bank of cold, crackling snow. But what I did see was a heeled boot stomping on a still burning fag from left to right, in a flowing, circular motion. I looked up along the leg and back at me smiled this girl I had only met once in my first year of college, and I knew—I knew I was having just a lousy panic attack because of that freak character of mine who rattled my already shitty subconscious into remembering the only girl that got away. Fuck.

         I sounded like a lame asshole to my own ears, wheezing like an arthritic grandpa fallen on one side, snow drifting and melting in my mouth with each strained breath. A street mutt came to sniff my frozen hair. His breath formed little white clouds in the midnight air. I didn’t give a damn. I couldn’t get up either. That girl’s smiling lips were pinning me down like one of those Transformer bots from a past life. I couldn’t move an inch if my life depended on it. What if some natural cataclysm hit the spot where I lay collapsed? I snorted at the thought and some more snow filled my nose and made my eyes water. The trailing drops froze into stiff lines across my temples. The night I half dragged her out of the club had been just as cold, if not colder.

         I slammed her against the nearest wall and stared at her quivering lips, my lower body ablaze. She was shivering in this tiny, black tank top but my mind had one track and one track only. I wanted to kiss her. I said—I want to kiss you. I want to brush a finger against your lips and feel the warm wetness of your tongue on my fingertip. I want to knead your cool flesh with my feverish hands. I want to feel your legs wrap around me, see your back arch and your mouth open to let out a long moan before you scream this town alive. God, I so want to kiss you, I said.

         I’m an idiot like that sometimes. I wasn’t even that drunk, to tell you the truth. I just thought it was poetic enough for a girl studying law. Turns out I’m the one lying on my back looking at the frozen night sky, wondering what the garbage truck guys will say when they find me here in the morning frozen like a human popsicle. I really should lay off those fags…

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