How He Didn't. (Prelude)
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I wanted my fucking mom. I couldn't recall any lovely memories in a moments notice, and this was because my cheap, red, lace-coming-off-the-crotch Victoria's Secret thong was stuck so far up my ass crack and I didn't have enough time to pull it out. Ladies, we only buy this shit because it comes in a fancy little white and pink striped box with a bow, and even if its not a gift you still feel like you've given yourself heaven because a thong is worth a thousand words. I would have gladly asked Barry to to lend me his hand, but he was too busy commanding me to spread my legs wider. I'm at the fucking gym, okay? I don't have fantasies about Barry. You just don't do it. This isn't Nike? He is a good guy, and I love him. What the fuck is with these dating advice therapists or whateverthefuck they call themselves? Men pay attention just fucking fine.Barry payed attention. Barry is the kind of guy who could start a conversation about anything, and hes the kind of guy who he thinks parents should stop thinking they're so rebellious or so fucking original just because they decide to change around a name like "Jake" to "Jayk" It's not like people could differentiate the name anyway, he said. It was still fucking 'Jake.' This gave me something to think about while I sweat all over the sweat of someone else who was once sweating over the sweat of someone else. They never clean these things, and I figured out why I could talk to Barry and why I loved him. He was married and he stared at his little pocket-sized photograph of the lucky woman. His lucky woman was so fucking lucky, let me tell you. It was sweet, yet I felt sick and this was what made me reach down to pull out the biggest wedgie in the history of history. And I did. He just looked at me with his "What's wrong?" look followed by a "You look beat, you should sleep 'till noon tomorrow" look. I gave him an "I cant" look which really meant "will you come to my apartment with me" look. He didn't get that, though, and it's better that he didn't.
I slipped into my car and looked at him for a split-second until he looked at me and touched my leg. I turned away and started to pull out. this time he asked me directly, "What's wrong?" and disregarding his effort, I didn't respond. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Don't touch me, please don't touch me. Especially on my leg. What am I? I am thirteen again, but this time I don't want that fickle little bitch romance. Don't touch me because I want to keep it that way. Don't touch me because I'm an idiot and the guy behind me said so when I almost backed into him and his wife. Taking a long breath, I decided I couldn't drive. Barry switched with me and continued that concerned gaze. I watched him closely. He thought I was sleeping.
I walked in my apartment and inhaled that same smoke smell that every apartment has if you've ever had an ex-lover who smoked. It wasn't pleasing because smoke stuck around really fucking long and that made your ex-lover stick around even longer. If you're like me and never began any relationship because you're too scared of that smoke smell, then, well, I guess you wouldn't have to worry about having an ex or trying to cover it up when people go into that long you-shouldn't-smoke-its-bad-for-your-exquisite-body lecture. I would usually comply and admit it that I used to be a heavy smoker, and it wasn't Chris who stained my apartment with his smoke and short goodbyes. I used to think it was easier. I used to think that I could occupy my time better. How he didn't throw his cigarette away and how he didn't almost burn my armoire and how we didn't laugh so fucking maniacally on my bed even though it was worth three-thousand dollars. How he said he didn't love the way I looked in the morning or the way I looked when I just stepped out of the shower. How he didn't say the towel looks better piled with the clothes I wore yesterday. How he didn't press me against that armoire that he almost burned and how he didn't burn into me; how he didn't burn into my body, my mind, my heart.
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