The Man, part 5.

- "The sex was freakin' amazing. Fucking awesome!"

She all but threw it out there. Without any hint or warning leading up to it. She had a habit of doing that. No hint. Nothing to brace you or get you into the mood of the topic of this little spiel. Plop;  and there it was on the floor.

- "Uhuh."

He muttered back and tried to sound uninterested. Taking a swill from his beer while fumbling to get the cellphone out of his pocket with the other hand. Thinking of ways to get out of this situation and into a bar. A sensible plan for getting slaughtered was needed.

- "I must have cum like a dozen times last night." She continued.

Details. Details flying at him like sand into his eyes. Unasked for and annoying when you can't help yourself from looking and just have to keep staring into the spray.

- "Alrighty then. Stupendous. Good for you and hooray."

It's not really a conversation when one of the parties is constantly trying to shut it down. He realized this of course and hoped she would too. Although that would assume she had any real intention of this being an actual conversation and not just another one-sided monologue piece about her amazing lovelife, sexlife and fucking-ignoring-him-life. Alas, it was so.

She swiveled around on the chair and gazed up into the ceiling, leaning back so far that her hair almost touched the floor behind her. Occasionally swirling and sipping her drink as she twirled. The liquid inside the glass, some sort of pink mojito-half breed, sloshed dangerously close to the edge of its container as she picked up speed. It looked like the stuff coming off of that pink puck in the urinal, flushing down into the drain.

He was at this point furiously pushing the buttons of the phone with his thumb in an attempt to construct a text message that could save him from this predicament. Accidentally mashing several letters at once in his haste, misspelling as he went. Growing more annoyed with each mistake.

- "Why the hell are the buttons so God damn small? It's like this thing was designed to be operated with a midget's toes." He muttered to himself as he finally got the last digit right and pressed 'send'.

He was going to need a much stronger drink than this if he was to survive the wait. Something that could dull his mind sufficiently. In order to desensitize him from the apparent set topic of the evening. He strode over to the little bar area in the corner of the living room and plonked down his bottle on the wooden counter. The force was enough to stir up the carbonation in the beer and cause it to fizz slightly. Rum would do the job. After all: 'Time flies when you're having rum.'.

Downing the first round in one go he hardly had time to taste it. Pity, it was a good brand. Once it hit his stomach it gave him that old familiar feeling. A warm almost burning sensation started to emanate from his gut. Spreading into his chest, arms and legs. When it finally hit his head it was like superglue spreading, drying and hardening inside of his brain. An epoxy cauterizing every neural cluster and the thoughts that went with them. Back to being an idiot, a safe feeling.

A beep and a rattle in his pocket. Paige had responded to his text.

"im working tonight, sorry baby :("

- "His cock was huge!" she slurred as she leaned back just far enough on the chair to tip backwards and do an unwilling and flailing somersault.

He was going to need a bigger bottle.

The Man, part 4.

The gash was getting a whole lot worse. I was happy for her. Truly. But up to a point. My happiness, for her happiness, only went so far. I always suspected she would be better of with some other man than with me. Not necessarily this new one of course. At the same time I would gladly trade away a piece of her well-being for some more of my own. If it meant I'd have her by my side. Selfish, I know. What can I tell ya? Other women did not interest me as much. Nothing they ever did or said could make me as happy as her. Nor as sad. Obsession? Maybe. Piteous? Definitely. In the long run having people around me not fully knowing of my fixation made me feel somewhat more comfortable. It was as if I was some sort of spy leading a double life. Alright, it was never as exciting as that. I won't give you that impression. There were no secret meetings on the rooftops of Paris, exchanging microfilm for political prisoners. Maybe I was more like a cheating husband. Ironically "the other women" being my wife, her being my mistress. In my mind's eye. Damnit this band-aid itches! Then came Paige. The first someone who bothered. Tried to try. Her kindness offsetting her inability to understand me. That said; Paige has an uncanny ability to sense what parts of my personality are vulnerable and need mending. Had she been of crueler intent she could have pushed my buttons to the brink of meltdown. Destroying me with the littlest of ease. Maybe that's what I needed. A nuclear wind sweeping in. Rolling back all of the superfluous nonsense built up by society and myself. Is that what she was? My radioactive darling? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. As pleasant as our times together are I can sometimes sense that very certain uncertainty bubbling inside of me. No, it isn't just gas. It's bile (originating not from the liver but from years of rejection) that has fermented. And every once in a while it surfaces in the form of suspicion and fear. Was she really into me? Why would she be? Is she only playing with me? I never say such things directly, naturally. I hope I don't fuck this up. A little hate comes bleeding through.

The Man, part 3.

Shitty coffee, at a shitty café. He couldn't quite figure out why she insisted on coming here. There were plenty of good, or at least half-way decent, places in the same neighborhood. Ones that didn't smell like day-old coffee and mold and grime. Sure she had a thing for the guy who worked here, but was that really an excuse? The stuff they served was just rancid. Brown weird tasting liquid. Coffee in name only. As he stared down into his cup at the old curdled cream that had gathered up like an alien cocoon at the bottom he caught himself day dreaming. Mostly of nonsense. Bunnies fighting each other with Uzis, women he knew and fantasized about regularly, having an apartment that wasn't a joke. The regular stuff. But somewhere in there, at the back of his head and mind he also held a thought of her. An idea. In an idealized form. The one he remembered from when they were kids. The one he had modeled every other encounter and impression of women after. The archetype that was faulty, wrong and nonsense. Other people had their mother to blame, he had her. None the less she had at least thought of him and taken the time to call. Things were going better. As they sat there the same old conversation they had had a thousand times by now unfolded with tedious inevitability. She lamented some man. He supported and complimented her. Listening to the details and making suggestions along the way. Then it was his turn to discuss some part of his private life, at this point she usually switched off and started drifting in and out of the conversation. Commenting instead on how unfulfilled she felt, her needs and ultimately her desires. - I'd just like a really good fuck right now. She blurted out. - Well that's not exactly hard to find...when you're a reasonably attractive woman... He shot back as soon as he heard it, with an annoyed urgency creeping in to back it up. - Whad'ya mean? Like I can go out and have sex at any time? As she finished the sentence she uttered a loud "Pfft" so hard she almost shot saliva all away across the table. - Of course you could. Walk into any bar, club or grocery store and you can find a dozen non-deformed young fellows, primed and ready to go. Minimum effort required. I however have to scope the situation, put in a lot of effort and at best have a slim chance at the end of the night. He punctuated his phrases with intense hand movements, it seemed as if he was doing a performance. In a way he was, he had mulled over this idea in his head many a time. Considered the exact wording and intonation. This was The Idea's grand gala opening into the real world. And it was going great. - I guess you're right... I'm gonna go ask him. She pushed her chair back with a loud scraping sound. The worst kind. The sound of dry wood against a stone floor. All he could do was sit there and watch her walk over and talk to this guy, another anonymous guy. Had he been anywhere with her where she had not met some guy? The sounds from the street outside and the few other customers drowned out what they were saying. Things were not going well.

The Man, part 2.

I got the call just as I was leaving work. I almost snapped off the band-aid from my finger while scrambling to get the phone out of my pocket. What the hell does she want now? Isn't it enough that she rejected me? Is this some sort of sick game to her? I know alot of things, the only problem is that most of it's wrong. One thing I am certain of however is that I love her. Or loved her, whichever makes me less pathetic. For the longest time she seemed like she was deciding. What she wanted from life, what she wanted from me. In reality though she had probably figured out exactly what she needed me for quite some time ago. Some sort of male companionship. When other men treated her like shit she needed me to come in and reassure her. Tell her she didn't deserve what she got. Keep her company. Maybe watch a movie and eat dinner together, in our little apartments. Knowing full well that I wanted her. On second thought it was entirely possible she couldn't quite understand just how much this feeling had taken over my life. No, no she had to know. Not fully, but surely an inkling had to appear somewhere in that head of hers. We were more than friends. "Just friends" as she put it. The phrase that can make any grown man feel like he's back in school, having just been humiliated in front of the class. "This is my heart, please don't dump it on the floor." I really need to get back home first and have a shower and change this band-aid. It's starting to itch, a whole lot. If this thing gets infected I swear to God I'm going to go berserk! I'm not going to lose a finger over a bet. How the hell was I to know that Indian would be so good at the knife game? Proving once again that whisky and sharp objects don't mix. The band-aid is getting frayed around the edges and discoloured. If only it was a Flintstones one like when you were a kid. That would be cute, that would be a way in when you're picking up women. What the hell am I thinking? "Hey baby, wanna see my disfigured finger?" Sexy, real sexy. Who was it that had fucked her and left this time? Some dashingly handsome actor? A mysterious musician? A successful banker? It didn't matter. They were all the same underneath. The same insecure, preening, posturing bullshit artists that equally insecure women fall for. I knew most of these guys through friends of friends and acquaintances. Walking human echoes, one and all. What a whiny little bitch I had become. At times that little piece of plastic cloth felt like it was the only thing holding me together.

The Man, part 1.

On the bus. He could feel every contour of his face, every edge and protrusion. The skin was pulled more tightly over the bone and cartilage than usual. It often did that just after he had showered. The skin probably dried up somewhat. But who had time for lotions and ointments, really? It was more than enough work to brush each day. Flossing only occurred sporadically. When he remembered to remember. Not often enough according to his dentist. Screw that guy though, he had arm-hair covering his wrist watch. He may know about dental hygiene but who takes advice from a guy like that? And those kids in the framed pictures, let's just hope they're talented or something. He had gotten off the bus now, waiting for the next one. In that little glassy hut-like structure they call a bus stop. Smoking the first cigarette of the day as he stood there. Mulling over what he had heard about the nicotine in the cigarettes turning your fingers yellow he concluded;

"This is what yellow tastes like."

Do colours have tastes? If they did, yellow would no doubt taste like a morning cigarette in the rain. Did the cigarettes actually taste different while smoked on an early, rainy day? Or was it all in his head? In either case it was all real to him. That's what mattered, right now. Until he got to see her again. Finallly.