Brenton
itumeleng kganyago
Shea
Always Eighteen
AhmedGreat Part Two.
January 29th 2007 03:39
Continued from THIS POST
The idea was great, but they all seem like that at first. After the reality of everything sinks in, ideas loose their edge of perfection.
And now, what? I’m in the car with the girl, going down a highway. The appropriate thing to do is to talk, but there’s nothing to say. I should never have come. I’m going to fall back into my big black puddle of glum; she’ll put up with me until I make her so miserable that she’ll ditch me. Then when I’m gone she’ll feel guilty for it.
I should have stayed in my apartment. I should have stayed in bed. I should have jumped on the track instead of the train. A hundred or so people late for work. My final inconvenience.
Capitalist wet dreams fly past my window. The immortal golden arches. Starbucks. Subway. Hungry Jacks. A flock of bats flies through the still light sky. I give a little smile at that until I see the huge machine tearing apart the trees they used to live in.
She slows the car down and stops in a small parking space. She looks at me.
Are you OK?
Yeah. I guess so.
Do you want to go back?
No. Not want to. I don’t know. I’m not the happiest of people. I tend to dampen atmospheres a lot. So if I’m getting a bit too doom and gloom, feel free to, y’know, tell me to take a walk or something. I won’t mind. I just don’t want to be a burden.
Righto.
There is a short silence. I’m almost uncomfortable right now. Her presence is demanding of all attention. She lasers me with her powerful brown eyes. Then looks away. I’m hesitant to breathe, in case I inhale too much atmosphere and drown.
I… she begins to say, then looks down. She moves her head back up and catches my eye for half a second, before looking straight past me.
I’m feeling… I’m feeling very close to you. I think… Um. I’m sorry. This is really, really uncomfortable, isn’t it?
A bit… I guess, yeah.
I’m sorry. Sorry. Maybe… maybe you want to leave. I don’t know. I, dammit. Shit, sorry.
You want me to go?
You can go if you want.
I don’t mind.
OK.
There is a longer pause, where I try to piece together everything. Limited success.
I um, she says. Um… yeah… are you in a relationship?
No. It ended. Badly.
I’m sorry. I thought… you mentioned sore but I didn’t really know what… You know what I mean.
It’s OK. It was my fault really. I have a really bad effect on people. I can be really destructive, like brutally destructive. I just hurt people. The more I care about someone, the worse they’re hurt.
She looks me in the eyes. I know what that’s like, she says.
I breathe in. I can smell her deodorant, and the Marijuana leaf shaped air freshener dangling from the roof. She looks in the window to fix her hair for a moment.
This girl is a mystery.She is a contradiction in terms. It’s as though she is powerful and timid, confident and uncertain all in one, and every tiny stimulation knocks her into transit, like an emotional chameleon.
OK, she says. This is what I want to say. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I’m trusting you, I suppose. I’m a very complex person. If this ends up not working, I can say the word and you have to go home. Is that OK?
Yeah, sure.
OK. Other thing. Ah, would you be willing to, embark, I guess… bad word. Would you be interested in a temporary, non-committal relationship? Along with just, basic friendship. Would that be something comfortable for you?
Ah… sure.
OK. Good. I like you, you know?
Thank you. You’d be one of few to say so.
I have weird tastes, they say, she says.
Oh. OK.
She starts up the car again, and we’re on our way. This is so surreal. I’ve… I’ve what? What just happened back there? Was I promised sex? This is weird. No need to deny it. This is straight odd. But… on an upper hand, I’m feeling a lot better now. Almost cheerful.
Almost.
In retrospect, I realise I’ve fallen asleep. I decide this as I’m waking, and in my sleepy state I congratulate myself for having such comprehensive and logical thoughts while still waking. MigraineFM are promoting some Greenday tour. I count six clichés in the first half of the ad, but quickly loose interest in counting. I look out the window. Evening has come. There are plenty of houses and small roads around the place so I presume we’re near her place. I crack my neck.
We pull in to a driveway. Her house is an incredibly small Victorian design. The fence is a grossly kitsch crème tinted twirly metal, with tiny flowers. Her house is biodegradable. The wood is rotting, with a black lining to the bottom of every white post. Her door is covered in peeling red paint, with a gold seven hammered to the centre. She unbuckles and gets out of her car, and I follow her lead.
Sorry about the house, she says. It’s kind of a mess.
I don’t care. It’s all good.
Yeah, she says. Better than nothing. My parents own it, and they’re letting me stay in it. It sucks, but it’s better than renting.
IMAGE
The idea was great, but they all seem like that at first. After the reality of everything sinks in, ideas loose their edge of perfection.
And now, what? I’m in the car with the girl, going down a highway. The appropriate thing to do is to talk, but there’s nothing to say. I should never have come. I’m going to fall back into my big black puddle of glum; she’ll put up with me until I make her so miserable that she’ll ditch me. Then when I’m gone she’ll feel guilty for it.
I should have stayed in my apartment. I should have stayed in bed. I should have jumped on the track instead of the train. A hundred or so people late for work. My final inconvenience.
Capitalist wet dreams fly past my window. The immortal golden arches. Starbucks. Subway. Hungry Jacks. A flock of bats flies through the still light sky. I give a little smile at that until I see the huge machine tearing apart the trees they used to live in.
She slows the car down and stops in a small parking space. She looks at me.
Are you OK?
Yeah. I guess so.
Do you want to go back?
No. Not want to. I don’t know. I’m not the happiest of people. I tend to dampen atmospheres a lot. So if I’m getting a bit too doom and gloom, feel free to, y’know, tell me to take a walk or something. I won’t mind. I just don’t want to be a burden.
Righto.
There is a short silence. I’m almost uncomfortable right now. Her presence is demanding of all attention. She lasers me with her powerful brown eyes. Then looks away. I’m hesitant to breathe, in case I inhale too much atmosphere and drown.
I… she begins to say, then looks down. She moves her head back up and catches my eye for half a second, before looking straight past me.
I’m feeling… I’m feeling very close to you. I think… Um. I’m sorry. This is really, really uncomfortable, isn’t it?
A bit… I guess, yeah.
I’m sorry. Sorry. Maybe… maybe you want to leave. I don’t know. I, dammit. Shit, sorry.
You want me to go?
You can go if you want.
I don’t mind.
OK.
There is a longer pause, where I try to piece together everything. Limited success.
I um, she says. Um… yeah… are you in a relationship?
No. It ended. Badly.
I’m sorry. I thought… you mentioned sore but I didn’t really know what… You know what I mean.
It’s OK. It was my fault really. I have a really bad effect on people. I can be really destructive, like brutally destructive. I just hurt people. The more I care about someone, the worse they’re hurt.
She looks me in the eyes. I know what that’s like, she says.
I breathe in. I can smell her deodorant, and the Marijuana leaf shaped air freshener dangling from the roof. She looks in the window to fix her hair for a moment.
This girl is a mystery.She is a contradiction in terms. It’s as though she is powerful and timid, confident and uncertain all in one, and every tiny stimulation knocks her into transit, like an emotional chameleon.
OK, she says. This is what I want to say. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I’m trusting you, I suppose. I’m a very complex person. If this ends up not working, I can say the word and you have to go home. Is that OK?
Yeah, sure.
OK. Other thing. Ah, would you be willing to, embark, I guess… bad word. Would you be interested in a temporary, non-committal relationship? Along with just, basic friendship. Would that be something comfortable for you?
Ah… sure.
OK. Good. I like you, you know?
Thank you. You’d be one of few to say so.
I have weird tastes, they say, she says.
Oh. OK.
She starts up the car again, and we’re on our way. This is so surreal. I’ve… I’ve what? What just happened back there? Was I promised sex? This is weird. No need to deny it. This is straight odd. But… on an upper hand, I’m feeling a lot better now. Almost cheerful.
Almost.
In retrospect, I realise I’ve fallen asleep. I decide this as I’m waking, and in my sleepy state I congratulate myself for having such comprehensive and logical thoughts while still waking. MigraineFM are promoting some Greenday tour. I count six clichés in the first half of the ad, but quickly loose interest in counting. I look out the window. Evening has come. There are plenty of houses and small roads around the place so I presume we’re near her place. I crack my neck.
We pull in to a driveway. Her house is an incredibly small Victorian design. The fence is a grossly kitsch crème tinted twirly metal, with tiny flowers. Her house is biodegradable. The wood is rotting, with a black lining to the bottom of every white post. Her door is covered in peeling red paint, with a gold seven hammered to the centre. She unbuckles and gets out of her car, and I follow her lead.
Sorry about the house, she says. It’s kind of a mess.
I don’t care. It’s all good.
Yeah, she says. Better than nothing. My parents own it, and they’re letting me stay in it. It sucks, but it’s better than renting.
IMAGE
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Comment by Norm
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VOTE 1 CREATIVE WRITERS.
I sort of lost who was saying what there for a while but you pulled me back, I think.
Say hi to your Mum for me.
Fixing his tie,
Norm
Comment by Brenton
Dr Spin
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Please don't make me call the authorities,
Brenton.