I went outside for a cigarette. You can never smoke in front of my friends without getting judging looks from them. The way they would look at you with their judging eyes for one hot second and then quickly avert them to look at something so fucking interesting like their smartphones or their food, you’d think I’m doing crystal meth or ecstasy or something.
I don’t know how but I sort of felt that he followed me outside. I always had a sixth sense for that kind of stuff. Or maybe I just assumed the hell out of things. Anyway, sure enough, he was beside me with this stupid sort of apologetic look on his face. Like I was supposed to think he looks cute with that expression. I willed myself not to roll my eyes.
He nudged my shoulder with his. “Can I have one?” I gave him a stick and handed him my lighter. We haven’t smoked together since… well, those days. I try hard not to think about that because then I feel like a goddamn stupid slut who couldn’t wait for some.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret what I did. I don’t get weepy about it either. I just feel… disappointed, I guess. Or is this emptiness? I just couldn’t believe that that was my story. I wasn’t expecting a fucking fairytale or anything but at least something that’s interesting to share while having drinks with friends or something worthy writing a goddamn book about.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked me, still wearing that stupid apologetic look on his face. You could tell that he wanted to ask this for quite a while. He looked nervous as hell and a bit scared too. He’s probably scared that I might suddenly lose it and bawl over what happened. He was that kind of person, someone who would think people would get angry or sad over him. He’s a nice guy and all but sometimes he could just be so full of it.
“No. Why would I be?” And I really wasn’t, if he just wiped that kicked puppy look off his goddamn face. Or if he just stop talking about ‘what happened’.
“Nah, don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” I was starting to get annoyed. He was acting like I was being a bitch when I really wasn’t. He should see me be a bitch, it’s a fucking nightmare. He should ask my ex about my bitchfits. I spew out so much stupid and rage and rash it’s almost impossible to talk to me. The last time my ex and I fought a lot of low blows and happened. I could be a real bitch if I wanted to, I really could.
I really wasn’t angry over what happened. If anything, I was angry about how he couldn’t grow a pair and just tell me how it really was. I don’t need people to sugarcoat that kind of stuff. Especially, those kinds of stuff. It’s better to just say it straight to my face instead of just beating around the bush and dancing around the subject. I hate it when people do that. I also hate it when they don’t lie well. I hate lousy liars. I mean, if you were gonna lie exert a little effort in to it, will you? I’m not fucking stupid or anything; I could see through lousy liars.
“Like you’re not angry but I know you are.” He said with this tone in his voice as if he knew me so goddamn well.
That did it. I snapped.
“No, you don’t do that. Act as if you know me. You don’t. I might’ve told you some things but you do not know me. We never even had a real conversation ever since we came back to the city! I don’t know why, honestly, I’m good at conversations. You’re a lousy conversationalist, you know that?”
And he really was, I swear to God. There was this one time, when he talked about him and his awesome weekend with his friends for what felt like hours. He didn’t even have a good story, he just kind of bragged about how cool his friends were and what a grand time they had. I tried to change the subject since I couldn’t input anything to the conversation except for a few “Really’s” and “Oh’s”. He wouldn’t let up. He just went on about him and his friends. It was horrible.
“I’m not angry or sad about this… us. I’m not really feeling anything at you. Let’s just try to be normal and forget that something happened between us. I get it, you were caught up and made some bad decisions. I did too. We both did.”
He looked panicked. He looked back at the house, fearing that somebody heard me. This was probably what he didn’t want to happen: me shouting and going on a tirade. I just wasn’t able to stop myself. The way he talked you would’ve thought that he knew me for years instead of just a couple of months.
“I know you don’t want to say that out loud. The being caught up with things. I get it, you don’t want to be the bad guy. Lucky for you, I’m not too crazy about us. You get a free pass.”
My cigarette was almost finished and I felt sort of annoyed that I only got three puffs from it. I put it out by writing ash lines all over the cement floor.
“You should be, you lucky bastard. Anyway, I’m going back in.”
“I’m gonna split, I have to get up early tomorrow.”
I chuckled. Typical. “Yeah, okay. You take care.”
I watch him get a cab and drove off. I don’t know why but I kind of felt sad that he just took whatever I said willingly. I would’ve loved it if he fought back and screamed at me. Instead, he just swallowed everything and went home. What a wimp.