I actually have up until Chapter 15 written, but before I post them all I'm going through them one by one and polishing...like teeth or shoes or penises...
Something else you need to know about me is that I have a lot of trouble refusing help to women in distress. Remember that power I mentioned before that they have over me? Well here it is again. The girl that I had slept with just yesterday standing on the street corner looking for a place to stay, I can do nothing but offer her my accommodation. I don’t know. It’s just the way I was brought up. I look down at her from the stoop I motion for her to follow with my hand as I open the front door. Like a gentleman, I hold the door open for her. She walks ahead of me and waits for me to open the lobby door, which I do. Not even a thank you. What a bitch.
As we make our way up the stairs she pinches her nose shut and whines. “Someone should really clean this place up!”
I nod my head and continue on silently. I’d grip the railing, but the stolen gloves are in my wallet, and I’m afraid of it otherwise. She is too, which is pleasant to see.
“Good God, what a stench!” She goes on. I’m starting to hate her more and more.
“Shut up and keep walking,” I want to say, but I don’t, because I start to remember how I felt the first time walking through that hallway when I moved in. I thought I was going to die. It reeks of mothballs and plague and shattered dreams.
As we enter my apartment Rebecca lets out an exaggerated and prolonged heaving, like she’s just walked through a sewer or a pit of sulfur, but I understand because in a way, I guess she has.
“Wow, your place is so clean!” She gasps. “You’re not one of those neurotic clean freaks are you?”
I’m a little offended because I’m not neurotic, but I shake it off and go to the fridge. I take out two beers and offer her one.
“What, are you trying to get me drunk?” She asks sarcastically as she takes the beer from me. God, she’s annoying.
“You got me,” I say, playing along. I don’t know why. Slowly but surely I’m crumbling underneath the foot of Womankind.
“You know,” I say as I twist the cap off of my beer. “In a place like this it’s important to stay clean. I’m not neurotic; I just prefer to not live in filth. I’m not neurotic.”
“Whatever,” she replies mid-sip. I hate it when people talk with things up to or in their mouths. It’s obnoxious and rude.
Since she has taken it upon herself to sprawl out on my couch, I sit down in the sub-par armchair near my bed. She looks over at me and laughs.
“Is that your bed?” She chuckles. “Wow, your place is small.”
I want to kick her, but I don’t, so I say, “Well your ass is huge.” Not the best of tactical maneuvers, I’ll admit. But if she looks like a kid, then I should be able to act like one.
Rebecca looks at me sternly. She gets up and approaches me and I feel an aneurysm coming on. I shield my balls from the incoming battering ram onslaught. But then she just sets herself down on my bed and looks like she wants me to sit next to her and engage in a deep conversation, put her head on my shoulder and confide in me about something, which is a terrible idea when I’ve only had one beer. So with me in the chair and her on the bed, we just sit there staring at each other in excruciating silence. A few desperate sighs are all we have to breathe in the thick, awkward smog of two people stuck together who have nothing in common.
Thankfully, when I finally give in and sit next to her she just lies down. My bed is a twin, not enough for two full grown adults, except maybe for the two anorexic stars of a teen TV drama. I said she could stay here; I didn’t say she could use my bed. I sigh and I’m making my way over to the couch when she I hear, “Eric, where are you going?” I point to the couch and she shakes her head and beckons me back over. I turn the kitchen light off and head back over to the bed. If she’s expecting me to lie with her all night and cuddle, well she’s got another thing coming. I’m really just not in the mood for this.
Sure enough, however, she sits back up and puts her hand on my leg, then buries her head underneath my chin. She’s breathing a little heavier than what I imagine is normal, almost like soft crying. Fuck.
“Eric, do you think I’m attractive?” She asks. Cardiac arrest is imminent. That little guy inside of me that usually tells me what to say to women, well he filed for disability.
“Umm...” I begin confidently. “What do you think about yourself? That’s what matters.”
I’m so wise when I’m flabbergasted.
“I’ve never been able to figure it out.” She sobs. “Every time I look in the mirror I don’t know whether to feel confident or disgusted with myself. It’s like I’m twelve all over again.”
I knew it! Shit, I’m going to jail.
“God, that must sound ridiculous,” she continues.
“Not at all,” I say, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the arm that’s not asleep.
“I just never can feel sure of myself, you know?” She says as she picks her head up and looks at me. My eyes are glazed over.
“I understand.” My phrases become reflexive as my brain goes into autopilot.
“Oh, Eric,” And then I’m out.
When I finally slip back into relative consciousness, I realize that her mouth is latched on to mine like a surgical mask, and from the physiological perspective, what occurs next is sex. All it really feels like is I’m lying on my back wearing a one hundred and five-pound jockstrap that moans. I’m tired; more confused than anything else, and frankly I’m just pretty disinterested to the whole situation. But like the trooper that I am, I keep going until all respective participants have deemed the act complete. Soon enough all action seems nonsense and she looks asleep. I’m unconscious, thus making myself oblivious to whatever act of molestation she may decide to perform on me for the rest of the night.
I’m awakened by the smell of smoke, thick and putrid, assailing my left flank. It’s Rebecca, sitting upright, her chest wrapped in my sheets and a cigarette hanging from her bottom lip. Ashes and butts fill up a previously empty beer bottle. The clock says 4:00 AM.
“Morning,” she says, blowing out a thick ring of the curling smog. Disgusting or not, it was impressive.
“No smoking,” I reply as I slime out of bed and stumble over to the bathroom. I shut the door and splash water on my face, paying no regard to the state of the plumbing in this building. When I finish voiding my bladder, I can tell that she still hasn’t put out her cigarette. She’s persistent.
“I hope you know that I expect you to pay for the Laundromat to wash those sheets.”
She blows out another ring and raises her eyebrows. “Why?”
Cute and rude. I’ve really picked out a winner. “Because I hate the smell of smoke, and it lingers on this kind of fabric.”
“Why didn’t you say anything before?” She asks.
“Well for one I was asleep. And I didn’t want to seem neurotic.”
“I thought you said you weren’t neurotic.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why would you be afraid of appearing neurotic?”
“I wasn’t afraid. I was—“
“You should get new sheets, then. Don’t make it my problem,” she says, with just a tiny hint of low-rent sarcasm.
I try my best to shrug it off and climb back into bed. She drops the cigarette into the bottle and lays her head on my chest, trying her best to act like a kitten. Her hair smells like peaches and cancer, but strangely enough, nothing has ever felt this nice against my skin. A few minutes pass and I hear her drift to sleep, moaning softly between rhythmic breaths. It’s like clockwork, and soon enough I join her.
