A/N: I get the feeling that I'm coming closer and closer to original fiction, as I keep picking more and more obscure characters. This was enjoyable, even though as per usual, I don't like it right now. But hey, look, I'm leaving for Spain in a couple hours, so I'm sorry if it seems rushed, but I love you and I wanted to finish before I left. See you in a week.
Oh, Rated T (wtf, I hate these new ratings) for tiny bit of language and perhaps some sexual content (but not really).
Matt Oleander. Sad kinda guy, easily manipulated. Doesn't know what the hell he wants. I'd pity him, if he'd actually given me a reason to be sympathetic. But no, of course not. As with most people, he brought all his own problems upon himself. I don't even know why I bother thinking about him anymore. I don't even know why I bothered dating him in the first place. I'd known him for a good year before anything romantic even began, and since the day I met him he's been a self-deprecating, insecure mess of a man who missed that day in grade one when we all found out how to deal with our problems the correct way.
And yet I still dated him. Go figure.
But I mean, I didn't take it seriously. I assumed he didn't, either. He never really took much seriously. I don't even remotely buy his so-called sudden passion for teaching. I think the poor bastard just wanted the quickest way towards a job, the quickest way to quick money, probably to buy those drugs I swear he's doing when nobody's looking. He lacks maturity, is what he does. He lacks the rationale is sit down and plan his life out, because he's too busy having a blast being a complete fuck-up.
He gets by somehow, though, and I hate him for it. I can just imagine these high school kids he's teaching, asking him how he got to wear he is, and him explaining to them the most efficient ways to become the world's biggest, most unmotivated slackers. And him, just breeding more like him, breeding stupidity and self-absorption. I don't claim to be a saint, but Matt... on the simplest level, he's just a screw-up. He'll smile at you and try to be charming and pretend like he's just some down-to-earth mama's boy, having some flighty conversation about the weather, or hockey, or how pseudo-existentialism is causing the decadence of humanity's dignity, but once you take that step in and try to get serious with him, you spend all of your time stepping over the skeletons in his closet. I consider myself lucky. I basically avoided all opportunities for deep thought. He was obviously looking for some kind of control, so I just let him have me. For most people, make-out sessions in the back of your car got old after age 17, but there I was every night anyway. Being felt up by Matt Oleander, feeling more and more like a waste of life. I mean, there's not much to do when you're being felt upbecause face it, it's much more a hidden desire of that pre-pubescent boob-obsessed mentality than it is to please the girlso I would sit there and just wonder... why was I doing this to myself? I wasn't trying to him in any way, because that would entail I actually gave a damn about his well-being, which I'm happy to say I didn't. So then it must've been for myself, but then I couldn't figure out what I was getting out of it. The sex was decent, and I guess Matt provided me with some entertainment after a few drinks. But I had other friends, and I was still in college, so it wasn't like I completely needed a full-blown relationship to get good sex.
The best I could come up with? I wanted the slightest semblance of being needed. Not that Matt had any idea he needed me; never gave him any time to see what it would be like without me. Not until we broke up, anyway. I think that's all he's good for. Some good drinks, some good times, a little bit of satisfaction. You want real commitment, you're not gonna find it here. But it was all the same to me anyway.
So he broke up with me. Not exactly what the world was expecting, but an okay deal nonetheless. I got back my freedom, and he got back those lonely Saturday nights watching Gilligan's Island reruns he had so cherished and missed. Granted, I still remember the exact spot I'd left my lacy pink camisole on his bedside table, a dollop of sugary frosting on some sort of brown, dreary shit-cake. And I think even my Guess low-riders were strewn across the floor. He hadn't picked them up. This was still Matt Oleander, after all.
It wasn't like I wanted to be reminded of nights of leftover spaghetti and ordered pizza, and half-assed attempts at romance. But it came with the territory, and you have no idea how much those damn jeans cost me. So here I stood, while some fat, bald man came stomping down the hall in a wife beater, carrying a pint of Ben & Jerry's and grunting. I glanced over with a disgusted little glare, and he grunted before opening and entering the door behind me, then slamming it closed. I'd always hated that guy.
I knocked again. Somehow I could just see him in my mind, lying back on his bed with his headphones, deafening himself with The Cure like some 16 year old emo kid. I knocked louder. Any moment now, I felt the narrow hallways would cave in on me. That contradictory feeling of dazed discomfortsomehow unsure of what was going on, but feeling completely awkward nonethelesswas upon me.
But then a door opened. And he was there, of course, but it wasn't the man I'd been wanting to see.
He was there, wide-eyed and sober, not smiling but not thoroughly angst-ridden as was typical of sober-Matt. Suddenly, here I was, smiling pretty, red wet lips pouted, ready to kick Matt Oleander while he was down, and I felt like the most mentally unstable wench to grace the planet. What kind of sick, twisted fuck does this sort of thing?
Hello Charli, he grimaces at me. I return the gesture, and realize there's no turning back. I place on my best imitation of superiority and lean against the doorframe in pseudo-seduction.
Hello Matt, I say, without the slightest inflection of emotion. He told me once that drives him crazy. It was all just ammo in my arsenal. Hope you don't mind me stopping by. I think I might've left some clothes here. I let the corners of my mouth twitch now and then, echoes of happiness. He plastered on a smug little smile. It occurred to me pretty soon in this conversation that what we actually said didn't make a damn difference; it was just a petty game of who could best convey their feelings with a mere look.
So, even though you haven't been here in over three months, you claim you still have clothes here. Oh, don't pull this with me, Matt. Pretending like I'm bluffing, like I still made up some damn excuse to see you again.
Wouldn't exactly put it past you to not notice, Matthew, I said, still emotionlessly smiling. What, you hiding somethig in there? A girl. Aw, Matty, you had a party and didn't invite me, didn't you?Now's not really a good time...It's never a good time with you, Matt, I said, nudging my way inside the apartment, blowing right past him. I glance briefly at the mess of a living room,' then turn back to him. So you know what? I just make my own good times. And now is seeming pretty good to me. He was partially confounded, partially not surprised at all. I didn't have time to sit here and wonder what neuroses my ex-boyfriend is suffering from today. I shuffled right through the crap on the floor, the magazines and old newspapers. Right into his bedroom.
It was so ridiculous to come to this conclusion just by the appearance. Who was I, effing Nancy Drew? Making stupid assumptions was for paranoid little junior high girls. Just because Matt's room actually looked tidy didn't mean he had another girlfriend already, one of those girlfriends who watched Trading Spaces and believe in feng shui. The living room and the kitchen were all still a mess, so it didn't really mean anything. Until he showed up at the doorway with a guilty look upon his face.
I reached under the bed, and sure enough it was still laying there, collecting dust. I shook it out and let the dust particles fall unto his bed. Back to the fake smile I went.
Good thing she never found this, huh, Matty, I taunted. You'd have a little trouble explaining that one. Inscrutable bewilderment was smeared across his face. I didn't have the slightest idea whether he was telling the truth or not. I hated him for it.
he asked simply.
I felt my temper rising. I was staring at him from a distance, teetering the line between apathy and rage. It wasn't my place to care, anyway. I was the ex-girlfriend, and he was the bachelor. He did what he wanted, and I pretended not to care. I clutched the lacy pink ball of cotton and brushed past him, and to the door. I turned around at the last second, teenage melodrama rushing through my veins, and said quietly, See you around.
I was fully aware of how irrational I was being. I wasn't even sure I still wanted Matt Oleander. I probably didn't. I just wanted a little ego boost. Guess he doesn't deal them anymore.
I feel like I've written this before. Oh well. Review me. I gotta go.