Oh Planet, your incredible hotness proceeds you. I was waiting for you to stumble across my excerpt. I want you in particular to read this because I feel you're my only contact who analyses the artistic worth of my fiction, and this piece, on the whole, feels really weird to me.
First of all, it (hopefully isn't, but might be) difficult to gleam from context that this character is Charon's idealized perception of himself (meaning he's, by extension, my idealized perception; I'm doing a critique on authorial self-indulgence or something, let me know how that turns out), so I need to strike a difficult balance which is very difficult. The 'conversational' bit goes on for about eight pages, but I can't help but feel it's too heavy on the self-loathing. What I want to get across is that this guy isn't going into catatonic depression because he's gay, but because he feels rejected by his best friend. So not only do I not want him to sound whiny, but I also don't want him to sound . . . I don't know. Too gay? And yet, I want repeated and flowery descriptions of male beauty. It's hard.
I was fortunate that Miss O went on one of her extended "there is such a thing as Bi" rants, because that made it much easier for me to get into the character's psychology. The way it reads now is . . . strange. I'm finding it a bit hard to swallow that this guy suddenly lost all attraction to women after being an apparently awesome ladies man, but honestly the harder brick to swallow was how he managed to delude himself for so long.
Can I ask what you mean by "stuck-up"? The jock stuff was hard to write. Partly because I only had a vague idea of what I'm describing and secondly because holy crap, I can't believe I'm finally writing jock stuff! It's well, incredibly distracting. I have a fixation. This story might have actually cured it for a few months, though. Out of everything I've ever written, it's my opinion that
is the weirdest I've ever written. But as for the intro . . . It's sort of essential as a framing device. I've typed up to page 22, but I need to move some more shit around (originally that description of the first meeting was near the end), but just two scenes really.
There isn't a dialogue scene until page 9, but I am going to say that the narrator's girlfriend Denise is now my favorite character to write dialogue for. Hopefully you'll see what I mean. I'm just going to say that my intention is to take the piss out of Rand's weird romance plots, because they're weird. His friend Johnny is more of a challenge. I need him to come across as masculine without being stupid, eloquent, but awkwardly so, and have this puppy-like adorableness without loosing credibility. Again, difficult.
Fuck it, I'll post another excerpt. This is most of my second and third day's work.
But I just can’t do it. I can’t put myself on the page. I can’t imbue the written word with my soul. The more I think about it, the more I realize that during our entire friendship, I’ve been using you as a grail to hold all of my hopes, dreams and aspirations. My stillborn dream of being a writer is all I’ve left for myself. I must be drawn to failure like a bee to pollen. Or whores to street corners. All the successive I could’ve claimed, in athletics, in relationships, in war, I’ve cast aside to pursue the impossible. Remember Junior year, when I could’ve gone to State with you? I don’t regret what I did. I don’t regret blowing off practice for an entire week to finish my first attempt at a novella. I don’t regret locking myself in my room for hours, my fingers in constant pain, the pen in my hand feeling more and more like a sacrificial dagger more and more every second, as I crossed and wrote over the poorly typed manuscript lying dead on my desk. I don’t even care that it ended up being one of the worst pieces of shit that I’ve ever written. A grotesquely overworded plea for recognition. I thought it was the experience that mattered. The thought of being one step closer. I thought it was all right to sacrifice one dream for another, because my dead dream could live on through you.
And it almost did. Yeah, it was all a lie, I wasn’t going off to practice by myself. I still can’t believe you believed that. Have I ever, in my life, practiced without you? I don’t think I can, honestly. I think I tried it once, when you were breaking up with Kathy, but I really didn’t get much done. It felt too strange. Like how, before today, I’ve only ever jerked-off maybe three of four times in my entire life because it felt too strange. You know, doing it by myself. But I remember loosing in that last Sectional meet, the one that stopped me from going to State. I don’t think I slept the night before. I was so disgusted with that story, by the sound of my own voice, that I could’ve leave it alone. Premature. Half-aborted. I wanted it to live. But I’ll never forget that cloud of disappointment, that creeping malaise only half-passed off because everyone you did succeed, because everyone was so thoroughly convinced that I had tried my hardest.
Well, now you know the truth. We trained our asses off next year. I pushed you harder than I ever pushed myself. That should have been an obvious indication that I gave up on winning for myself. It should have been clear that I resigned myself to failure for your sake. That made it all the worse when you lost in the semi-finals, after making finals the year before. I know I could’ve won. If I’d been training harder, for myself, and not just acting as your cheerleader. I know I could have one because I had you to inspire me. I know I could have one because I had you to push me. So why did you loose? You didn’t even seem to care. Did I not inspire you? I tried my best, but it doesn’t feel like you need me. Your dedication is so strong, it doesn’t feel like anything I do could strengthen it. But I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame myself. What’s done is done. There’s no point in regretting it. But come on dude, I love you, but how could you loose? You are my idol, you taught me everything about the sport. Did you just give up, too?
Love . . . I’ve said it. I love you, Johnny. And not even entirely in a gay way. You’re like a brother to me . . . And I want to fuck you. Christ, I’m disgusting. Last month, when I was doing our laundry, I found one of your jocks in your gym back. It looked clean, man, seriously, it was starch white. Didn’t have any discoloration or anything, wasn’t wrinkled or tangled like the rest of your clothes. Well, I did the rational thing, I sniffed it to see if it was dirty. And yeah, it was completely pungent, ripe with your sweat. A thick, stagnant musk. Of course, my hand pulled it away from my face almost instantaneously. But I didn’t throw it in the basket right after. I held it out, dangling from the vice of my fingertips. I thought about it for a second . . . And I realized that I really liked the smell. I brought it back slowly to my nose, inch by inch. I took a quick sniff. Then I pulled it away again. I looked around, crumpled the jock into a ball and shoved it in my pocket. I ran into the bathroom and I locked the door. I started sniffing it some more. At first, very lightly. Very faintly. But after awhile I was forcing it against my face with both hands, inhaling as hard as I could. Man, it got me real hard. I did this for about twenty minutes, just hiding in the bathroom and sniffing your jock, rubbing my hard cock through my pants. But I didn’t have the nerve to come. It felt inappropriate. It felt like too much.
I admit that I was distressed by what I was doing, of course. Because, you know, it’s weird to smell your friends underwear. And even weirder to enjoy it. Of course, there was guilt, too. And embarrassment. That’s why I locked myself in the bathroom while I did it, I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want to explain why I was doing it, because, honestly, I couldn’t fathom why. My first guess was that it was just a pheromone thing. We’ve been with each other for so long and are so close, I didn’t immediately connect what I was doing to homosexual attraction. If anything, I thought it was completely removed from any kind of sexual attraction. This might just sound like complete denial on my part, but at the time I thought it was a purely Narcissistic attraction. An olfactory aesthetic.
I don’t mention this often, but sometimes I’ll talk about you to a girl I’m dating. I mention that, to me, it feels like we’re two parts of the same soul. I thought it made sense. Sense as to why I always feel so lonely when you’re not around. So bored and without meaning. For the longest time, I’ve felt like I’ve owned your body, like it was a part of mine. Why I’ve always felt so uneasy and distant, and I really mean this, afraid of other men. I don’t know how to say this, but It’s always felt like you were there to protect me from other guys. We both know I can hold my own in a fight, it’s just that I feel fundamentally incomplete. Like my backbone, nerves and muscles are all attached to you, and not me.
That how it’s always been. I feel ripped from somewhere. Like I’m part of something else. Just a fragment of somebody else and that I’m not really in any control of my own life. That’s why I’ve tried to hard to be self-reliant, self-sufficient. I tried my hardest to prove myself and have confidence in myself, knowing that if I crumbled for just a second, I would be nothing. That’s why I was so angry before I met you, that’s why I could only open myself up to my little sister. I felt like nothing. I knew I’d be nothing if anyone else found out. If I gave anyone one weakness to exploit, exposed one inch of my naked, tender, flesh, they would tear a whole in me that I could never close, wound me beyond recognition.
Look Johnny, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to hate me or be embarrassed by me. I’m not asking you to become a fag for me, I just want you to know the truth. Please, just stay my friend, my comrade in arms. I can’t imagine living without you. Just stay in my life. I promise that if I try, I can suppress these feelings I have for you. Things can be almost like the way they were before. With the exception, of course, that I’ll be bringing dudes home instead of women. I’ve heard that a lot of girls these days are going to gay bars because they know they won’t be hit on there. Come on, this might even turn out for the better. Look, I can’t change who I am. And I won’t try to. The more I think about it, the more I realize this was always how it was meant to be. I’m not ashamed. I just don’t want to loose you.
That incident with Denise . . . I’m sure you’ve talked to her by now. It was more sock than anything. I hope it was just the same with you. Shock, nothing else. You’ve never been homophobic or ignorant about these things before. You’ve always been a really smart, opened minded guy. Shit, Mark and Greg are both ‘that way’ and you’ve never seemed to care. (But I’m sure Greg will be thrilled, he’s always seemed to have a thing for me. So has Mark, now that I think about it, just not as badly as Greg.) I just know that look you gave me had to be shock. Wasn’t it? Like I said, I was shocked, too. But thinking about it has made it clear to me that I’ve always been this way. I just needed some time for it to sink in. I hope that by the time you read this, you’ll have come to the same conclusion.
I would have preferred to tell you all of this in person, but you really scared me. I just needed to organize my thoughts. You’ve got to need me, and even care for me, just as much as I do for you. In fact, I know you do. I don’t even know why I’m so worried. I’m just not in the most rational place right now. I know I’ve always been very stoic, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know where his deluge of fears is coming from. You can’t just walk out on me Johnny. I need some more time to think. I probably won’t be gone for awhile. That’s okay thought. I’m sure you need some time to think, too. I think next time we talk will be much better. We both just need time. Remember Johnny, I’m still Charlie, your friend and your brother. You can’t abandon me now, not after all we’ve been through. Especially over something like this.
That’s what I said to him. Basically. That’s the gist of it. I was so disgusted by my own words that the second I pulled the last page from the pleaten, I pushed my typewriter off of my desk and into the garbage. Johnny had left right before. Right after I told him. I left the letter on hid bed. I regret the whole thing. I never should have written it. Not only was it the most prolonged and agonizing act of masochism that I have ever endured, but once John reads it, he’ll loose all respect for me. I come off like such a bitch in that letter. Did I really mean most of it? Wasn’t I just imploring him for his pity? Why did I stoop so low? Why am I so desperate.
I couldn’t stand being there anymore. I got on my bike and rode all the way out here, into this slum, into this strange bathroom. Think I saw a motel down the street. I was at a bar. I saw a movie. Yeah, I remember. I was sitting in a theatre. On screen there was a man and a woman. They were making love in the center of a ring of obelisks carved from black, volcanic rock. They were on a deserted island, really idyllic place, a tropical paradise. I don’t know how they got there. I remember all this sunshine and white sand all around the girls creamy naked body. There was a wail of a horn. A thick sheet of fog. There was chanting, in the background, really deep chanting, and the girl was gone. The guy spent the rest of the movie looking for her, but I can’t remember how it ended. Looked old, it was grainy and over-saturated, probably made back in the seventies. Maybe I can just hang around here for a couple of days. I just can’t stop thinking about Johnny. I can’t stop reliving every sentence I wrote, every single, piteous, desperate whining line.
Christ, I should have left out all that stuff about being stupid and hating myself. Of course Johnny will never respect me again, why is there any doubt that he won’t? He might not hate me, he might learn to tolerate me. He might stay around, his body in the same room, but with his mind off somewhere else, telling his body that it has to stay there, in the corporeal realm. Trapped in that room. With the faggot who used to be its best friend, it’s brother and comrade. I would rather never see him again than have him stay in my life as some half-visible apparition. Where did my balls go when I wrote that tripe? I don’t want blood on anyone’s hands but my own.
To paraphrase Kerouac: I am writing this because I am going to die. But what am I writing this with? My typewriter is gone. Yeah, it was a really dramatic and symbolic, but in retrospect, it feels like a waste. I’m literally writing this whole story on toiler paper with a leaky fountain pen I found under a chair in a coffee house. I can’t stop writing words already written, words that fill me with a hatred and repulsion for myself. I feel like a fetus torn fresh from a fruit bowl full of placenta. I’m naked, vulnerable and stick with the stem-cells of a dream that will never grow. These words are the umbilical cord that will unknowingly wrap around my neck and kill me.
Oh Denise . . . What about you? I still feel like I love you. You are the flame that burned down the entire madhouse. The spark that inspired my lunacy. Only you could do, you magnificent and brutal bitch. Only you could elegantly, merciless, and best of all, unknowingly set up this whole con. She could tell something was wrong. Apparently the look on my face was one of the utmost horror, the electric shock that seizes the entirety of your nervous system after and unwholesome revelation, reducing the whole thing to tattered, torn, twitching circuits, the sparks of knowledge flying everywhere waiting to ignite the oil slick of tyrannical self-awakening.
She kept calling after me. After I jumped off of her and started to pull on my pants. “Charlie, what’s going on!? Where are you going?”
“I have to go, I’m sorry.”
“Has he found out?” she asks, laying in bed, in the red room of night, head askew, her silk sheets hanging off the rosaries of her A-cups. Her voice is like honeysuckle laced with arsenic. My voice, meanwhile is resigned and dismissive.
“No,” I say, tucking my shirt into my pants. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it? Why did you stop? Why are you leaving? I know that look. I can tell. You’re terrified. What is it. I have a right to know if I’m in any danger.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you know. Just trust me, you’re not in any danger.” I’m straightening my tie. I’ve already put on my vest and I’m eyeing the room for my hat.
Denise sighs. “Sorry. That’s all? You’re sorry? Well, that’s not good enough. You promised my clitoris filet mignon and left without even giving her a burger.”
“Why do you always have to drag your clitoris into this?”
“Because she has feelings too, Charlie. All of my pretty little gorgons feel neglected and they want you to pay attention to them. They want you to feed them. You’ve been neglecting all of us. We’re starving.”
“That’s a big order. Could you pick up the tab?”
“With gratuity.”
“Well I’m sorry. About everything. That’s all I can say. I wanted tonight to be special. I really wanted to . . .” I pause. I thought I’d wiped away all of my tears, but I feel more now. “I really wanted to love you, but now I know I never will.”
I pick up my overcoat off the floor and I start to button it up. I hear Denise ruffling in the sheets. I hear her scamper across the floor. I knocked over the lamp while we were fucking and now it’s askew, half off the nightstand, the shade covering most of the light. What little there is that escapes comes out warped, covering the room in a blistering red twilight, how and murky as a mother’s womb. The light sense of vanilla and lilac that permeated the room on entry is devoured by the moist insulation of sweat. Denise is standing in front of me and I see her for what seems like the first time in my entire life. I’d never noticed her before, outside of this room. Her long hair twists and curls like the roots of an oak tree, sticking to her face with sweat, then dissolve into twin streams of chocolate silk that run down over her breasts. Her hair completely obscures most of the right side of her distinctly peach shaped head. In this light, it’s almost the same color as a peach, too. Dark pink, with a pity of juicy black bone. Her hair almost seems to have shifted color with it. I almost see a familiar dark, bloody red. That hair color . . . I know I’ve seen it before . . . It has to be my imagination. It just has to be.
“Why?” she says, pulling her shimmering pink sheets up over her cleavage. “Why can’t you love me? I don’t care what you say. You’ve got contempt for me because I’m just a little girl. I know you think I’ll be in danger, being with you, and I don’t care. I don’t need anyone’s protection.”
“No!” I say, placing both my hands on her shoulders, bending down to look her straight in the eye. “I’ve already told you that it’s not like that. I can’t explain right now. You need to trust me.”
“I’ve always trusted you, Charlie. I’ve done everything you asked. I played the submissive housewife routine for too long now. But that was my mistake wasn’t it? You don’t need my trust. You’re just entitled to it, right?”
As she talks, I’m scanning the room for my hat. It’s not in the corner, near the overturned lamp. I’m sweating so hard now. I’m completely flushed. I can’t really concentrate on either looking, listening or talking. It’s like the whole rooms become blurry.
“You’re not even listening to me, are you? You mustn’t be. You’re only this vague when you’re not listening. You can’t fool me, you know. I’m smarter than the average nympho. If you were paying attention, you’d have written me a dissertation on how wrong I am, in a very authoritative tone.”
I know what I have to do. There’s only one to shut her up. I drop my hands from shoulder to hips and pull her towards me, bend ding down to press my lips against hers. I lock my jaw line against hers and I hold it there. For several minutes. Lapping every splash of her lip gloss, feeling every caress of the rolling eaves of her tongue. Its strange. I do this mechanically, without joy. As a labor, something rehearsed, acted. But didn’t I enjoy it when I kissed her yesterday. Didn’t I enjoy the smell of her hair, her perfume, the feel of her skin, the glimmer in her eyes? Did I not feel like I truly loved this girl? Like I would do anything for her? Did I not dream of her veiled in white, walking to the rhythm of ringing bells? Did I not dream of her bearing my son? Her body blossoming in tandem with his? I did. Now I can barely look at her. As I kiss her, I feel a light spell of nausea. Yet, I feel like even that could grow into something approaching joy. What’s going on? What’s happening to me? Is the chasm and denial so deep and black that I’ve lost my sight in its darkness?
I pull my lips away from Denise, and pull my head away from her at an angle. She was on her tip-toes as she kissed me. I let her slink back onto the heels of her feet. She looks up into my eyes, her face like a pulsating heart, fiery, backlit in the red light. Her voices reaches out to me in a naked whisper.
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. But I promise I’ll tell you everything then.”
“I don’t understand you, Charlie Decameron . . . Do you play this coy will all of your girlfriends? Or just the dumb ones?”
“I swear to you that I’ve never been coy a day in my life.”
“You’re so full of shit. I wish I could be sickened by you. But I can’t. You must think I’m pretty dumb . . . Why wouldn’t a man like you have settled down. Do you want me to beg? Do you want me to satiate your massive ego?”
I laugh.
“Oh, you’d like that!” she says. “Fine, Charlie I will. This is how stupid I am. You’re beautiful. You’re intelligent. You’re witty. Even when I have no idea what you’re talking about, I can just relax and enjoy listening to the sound of your voice. If I’m a whore, I’m you’re whore. But you won’t talk to me like one. You won’t slap me like one. You’ll just stand there and pretend like I’m a lady. A beautiful, classy lady. The kind of girl you can bring home to mom. You’re the classic con man. You can convince me bullshit is apple-pie. Why else would a guy like you have not settled down? You just want to play the field forever.”
She grabs my balls and squeezes them really hard. Her fingers are like crab pinchers on my dick. I chuckle to myself, although I’m not breathing. She squeezes harder and I gasp, groan faintly. I stay composed. Look her straight in the eye, smiling mockingly.
“But that’s all right,” she says. “It’ll be all the better when I break you.”
“I forgot. There was another reason why I liked you.”
“In what way?”
I grab her wrist and I twist it as hard as I can. I don’t let go. Her body has flug around and she’s facing away from me, her arm in an arc over her back. She tries to pulls it away, moaning, whimpering softly to herself. Then she gasps, give one last hard tug, fails and laughs in her next breath.
“It’s not because you’re kinky. I can tell you that. Think I’ve never dated women with an edge before? I’ve dated tons of them. Psychos, sadists, dominatrices. They all wanted to tame me. That was what they called it. They come at me with their whips and their leather and their boots and I let them do whatever they want. I kind like it, too. Maybe I’d like to be tamed. But they’re always so dull once the corset comes off. Once they put down their riding crops, they’ve got nothing. There’s nobody behind the leather. Take away their fiendish smiles, the commands in their heads and they’re nothing but mannequins in store windows. But it’s not just them. I’ve dated nice girls, mean girls, smart girls, dumb girls, big, little, geeky, athletic, artistic, ballerinas, princesses, maids, zoo-keepers, editrices, actresses, strippers, porn stars, traps and phone booths. Most of the had great tits and tight, narrow little cunts, but none of that mattered. That all needed one word, one label, one identifier to encapsulate the entirety of their souls. They make themselves into caricatures because they think it will make them easier to fuck. And it does. It just doesn’t make for a worthwhile fuck.”
She takes a succession of three heavy breaths. “Have I mentioned that I’m a feminist today?”
“You can’t do it, Denise. You can’t simplify yourself. You’re far too passionate. Too complex. That’s why I’m with you right now.”
“I might even be a psychotic dyke,” she groans, sweat pouring down her brow. “This might just be my bi-curious phase.”
“An individual should be treasured, Denise. I could say you were a bitch. A raging feminist. A borderline dyke. But you’re too smart for that. Too sweet for that. Even if your sweetness is far more humiliating than your cruelty. Your moods change in accordance with the content of your soul. You’re not a role you feel you need to act out. Most human beings are content with being as close to nothing as they can possibly be. But not you. Reducing you to a common word, compacting you into a single phrase, would be a great injustice to you. It would white-out your astounding literacy, your love of cinema, you gamer-chick bravado. Your beautiful voice. Your musical dreams.”
“So it’s perfectly all right to reduce ones soul to multiple labels?” She sighs. “I swear Charlie, you’re so good at spouting bullshit, you’ve managed to convince yourself it’s true.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t believe me. Don’t squirm either. It’ll only get worse.”
“All right . . . Let me go now. Pretty please?”
I release her arm and she falls to floor. She’s cocooned herself in her silk sheets, tenderly rubbing her wrist.
“What did I say?” she says, cooing. “An authoritative dissertation. You just have a speech for every occasion, don’t you? Do you write them out in advance?”
“Do you practice sarcasm in the bathroom mirror?”
“No, I use a special little compact. I bring it with me everywhere I go.” She laughs. It’s very faint. “Maybe we are a pair. And now you’re going to walk out on me? Abandon me? Why? You can’t explain it? It’s the only thing you can’t explain.”
“I’ve been looking for you for ten years. I thought it would be the happiest day of my life. I never wanted to play the field. It just sort of happened. I swear I’ve always wanted to find someone to share my life with. I swear on my sister’s soul. Someone I could call my girl and really mean it. I ‘ve always wanted to settle down and I thought that it would be with you. Just for one fleeting moment. But now that I’ve fond you, well, suddenly realized . . . That what I’ve wanted . . . Is someone I’ve had the entire time.”
“What? . . . Who?” Then it’s like a spark runs through her spine. What it took me ten years to figure out, she got in ten second. “You don’t mean Johnny?”
I look straight into her eyes. Straight at her as she lies curled up in the floor. She looks so wounded, so alone. I croon my head downward. I’m looking at my shoes. I hear her sheets rattle. I hear her pull herself up. Drag her body across the floor. Collapse on her bed. She’s sitting up, slouched forward, her entire body rattling slightly on the springs. I never take my eyes off of her. I can’t tell how long she’s been sitting there.
“I should have known,” she says at last. “The way you look at him. It seemed harmless enough. I thought maybe all you males looked at each other like that when you got to be close enough. Maybe all of you men just secretly want to fuck each other. We woman are just an obligation, right?”
“I’m really sorry Denise. I didn’t want it to be this way.”
“It’s not a big deal, Charlie. After all, we all can’t be cold logical men, now can we? Some of us have the gall to be born women. To be big boiling bots of hormones and emotion. Maybe if you’d had the decency to knock me up, get my clock to stop ticking so hard, then I could’ve let you go. I wouldn’t even have cared who or what you fooled around with next . . . You’re a real pig.”
She opens her bedside drawer and fumbles around a bit. She pulls out a pack of red Marlboro 100s and a Zippo. She light it, takes a long furious drag and lets out a puff of smoke, grey and spectral, into the room.
She stares at the wall. Directly in front of her. She keeps taking intermittent drags on her cigarette. She sits like that for a long time.
“Are you still here?” she says, not turning towards me. “Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be? You’re just looking for this.” She leans back over to her bedside table and pulls my hat out of the drawer. She turns it around in her hands, feeling the edges. “I was going to keep it. Kind of as a trophy. I wanted everyone to know that I fucked the great Charlie Decameron. Fucked the hat right off him.” She fans the smoke away from her face. “Maybe I’d even wear it. Pretend I’m Holden Caulfield and this is my shooting people hat. Then I’d find a few guys and unload some hot lead in their faces. I’m sure you could appreciate the symbolism. Especially now.” She mashes the butt of the cigarette into the pink ashtray in the shadow of the overturned lamp. “But there’s nothing about you worth keeping. You’re just a man.”
With hard, pinching fingers, she flings that hat at me and it glides through the air, into my hand.
“Thanks,” I say.
“A guy like you could never be a fag . . . You’re too old fashioned. You’re too real. You’re a real man.”
“You’re lying.”
“That makes two of us. Playing the ‘Sorry, I’m gay’ card? Classy. Really classy. I thought you were better than that.”
“I’ll call you in a few days. After you’ve calmed down a bit.”
“Don’t bother,” she says, tearing her pack of Marlboros open and lighting up another. “You may have wanted to love me, but I never wanted to love you. You’re a seducer . . . A rapist. I’m just a defenseless little girl who fell for your charms.”
I want to smack her. Right across her mouth. She thinks I’m incapable of pain. I’m not.
“I’m leaving now.” I turn towards the door. I take slow, heavy steps. Right as I touch the knob, Denise speaks again.
“When we first met, when you compared me to the sunflower. Did you really mean it? You said, and I quote ‘You are like the sunflower, a beautiful maiden who grows taller and more radiant than the dandelions, the whores that feed off the earth.’ I thought you were full of shit then, but you seemed sweet and funny, almost like a real gentleman. Well, now I think I know for sure.”
“I meant every word of it, Denise. When I was a boy I saw a single sunflower growing in my yard and it struck my tender young mind as the most beautiful thing in the garden. That impression stuck with me . . .” I sigh. I don’t take my hands off the doorknob or turn back towards Denise. “And that’s what I was thinking of when I saw you that day. But there’s another side to it. One time I saw an entire meadow of sunflowers and had a small revelation. ‘In meadows where only sunflowers grow and there are no dandelions, the sunflowers had nothing to look beautiful besides. They all sway, stupid and blonde in the breeze, and accomplish nothing. There’s so many of them, all the same, all without purpose or distinction. Then they wither and die. And nobody misses them. New sunflowers pop just as quickly. There is no single stem, nor bulb that matters to anybody because they’re all as commonplace as grains of sand. Sand churning in the transparent bowels of an hourglass. Their only value is in a cluster. The only thing they could ever strive for is a quick death, without the ravishments of decay or filth’ I could say this applies to you, but it’s a lie. I’ve only see that meadow once since then, and I don’t really want to go back. I only say what I mean. I only express what I think. That’s what separates the two of us.”
Her throat is quivering. I can hear. “Charlie?” she asks.
“Yes?”
“Could you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“When you see Johnny. Please, choke on his dick for me.”
“ . . . Just for you?”
“Get out.”
I open the door, walk under the frame and slam it shut. I’m standing directly in front of it. Staring into the wood grain. I can hear Denise crying from out here. I think about opening it back up. My hand almost reaches for the knob. But before my finger makes contact with the brass, I pull it back. I hear a loud crash from inside the room. Then another. And another. I turn around and walk down the hall.
Denise, I love you. I just could never love you as much as I love Johnny. I hope you’ll understand soon. Maybe I should have tried harder to open up to you. Am I scared of you? Am I scared of what you could do to me under the spell of emotional turmoil? I’m a coward. If I had the balls to express how depressed and confused I am, all because I love you, then maybe you wouldn’t loathe me as much as you do. But how could I? Would you even accept that? You would just keep pushing me away. I hope I did the right thing. I hope leaving you like that was what I should have done. No, that’s just an excuse. You don’t deserve me. You won’t try to accept or understand me. You’re looking for a reason to stick an ice-pick in my heart. No, that’s not true either. I’m just as emotional as you are. I just won’t express it. I’m a hypocrite. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. But you’re slipping away from me now. Our encounter is becoming a vague memory. A half-forgotten dream.