One for the Road

Another unfinished, partial-fiction, stream of consciousness written in third person to distance herself from the gut-wrenching content written some time ago.

She sat back on her haunches, huddled in the pseudo-industrial bathroom, trying not to touch anything. What the he'll was she doing? She couldn't keep her mind off of him, those few sultry  summer nights, the heat so intense they would both awake drenched in the most delicious sweat. That stupid Mohawk. Thank god for it. If he didn't have it, chances are she would have done something foolish, much sooner anyway. She could barely breathe as her fingers deftly scrolled to her intention. It was now or never, she knew, but she wondered if he did. Just pick up, you asshole, she thought as her heart raced to the ringing tone. The door to whatever semblance of a relationship or what-could-have-been was rapidly swinging to a close.  Of course it was his voicemail. Why did she even bother with this nonsense? Everything was always on his terms, she always acquiesced with him. He made her weak. Weak with desire, longing, weak with love. His azure eyes swirling and churning as the saline sea, that damn glint, as if the sun had a direct line. The slight lisp on his speech, like an adolescent wearing a much-maligned retainer. The ways his clothes hung ever so slightly large on his substantial frame. God, the way he looked in v-necks. That patch of blonde-grey hair, the way it sprung and wound around her fingers when she tugged at it. She couldn't get the slight-watery image of his eyes out of her mind. Why did he have to have such comedic timing? It's like he knows every time she is happy, and he swoops his tomahawk self in to throw a beautiful, romantic wrench into everything. To cast doubts and make her second guess. She shouldn't entertain such thoughts, but as the nights came on, she couldn't escape them. They crept in. He crept in. "you've got ten minutes to call me back fucker, it's now or never kid. This ain't a joke anymore." she didn't know whether she wanted him to call or not, as some of the fervor was draining out of her system.  She just needed a little fix, something to tide her over for a while. Just the inflection in his voicemail would do for now. This stupid lunch idea. Why was he obsessed with lunch? If only lunch could last forever, she knew which one she would pick. she was so close to saying "meet me, noon tomorrow, at our place," but something stopped her. Common decency, perhaps? Doubtful. What was it that stopped her? Was it love?  Devotion? Half a brain?  A taste of his own medicine?  There was something comforting about the red  battery light flashing in the corner of her device. It made her choice a little easier, she wouldn't have to employ her typical cognitive dissonance. What the hell made her even do it?  Seeing his mother didn't help. Rereading the frantic and obsessive messages certainly didn't either. She wanted to feel something harsh though. Something to contrast the marshmallow dream she had landed in. She wasn't used to such harmony. She thrived on chaos and pain because that's all she knew. Her defense mechanisms had no time card to punch any longer, she felt she was losing her edge, thankfully, but she had grown so accustomed, it felt foreign and naked. Maybe she was just looking for an excuse, something to order her world back to it's upside-down state. Because thinking back on when she first read that message, she didn't feel much. It grew more rose-tinted as the days and nights floated by. Was it just simple anxiety? Plain old fear, brought on by having this perfect picture,  perched so deliberately upon the mantle, smashed to the ground by past demons. Was that dream and that day the beginning of this?  It stands to reason. But the epiphany that night morning, what of that?  She cried and thought of Mabel. She felt her, she felt she was in the right place,