tilleys89-blog

[tilleys89-blog]

Chapter Two

This place is a disaster.  

I do this to myself.  I just really, really hate cleaning.  

I’m not sure if the importance of picking up after yourself was ever fully ingrained into me as a child.  It’s a discipline that I wish I had at this very moment though, because this place is fucking nasty.  Clothes are everywhere.  Dishes are in the sink with food still on the plates.  A month’s worth of mail is sprawled out over the kitchen counter.

Other than my inability to clean up after myself, I really like my house.  It has good feng shui.  

I should probably learn what that word actually means.  Wait, is it one word or two words?  

I retrieve my phone from my pocket and do a quick search which reveals that it is two words.  Also, it apparently means that a designated area is balanced with energy.  

In that case, my apartment does not have good feng shui because I need to clean it.  I’ve upset the balance!

Maybe it’s not a bad time to clean.  I don’t really have anything else going on right now, after-all.  I could text Michelle back, but honestly, I really don’t want to. The nightmares from last night have traumatized me.  That fucking bat, man. Son-of-a-bitch, where’s everyone at when you create a good pun?  

I should probably just delete the app.  I mean, if Michelle is any indication of how the rest of the girls are online then count me out.  Plus, the logo for the app is ridiculous.  It’s a butterfly sitting on a heart.  Not like an actual heart, that would be weird, but like one of those illustrated hearts.  The typical heart drawing.

Oh, hey, I got a match.  Don’t you just love it when that happens?  Oh, I’m going to delete you!  No you’re not, here!  You just got a match, bitch!

Well, hello there, Rachel.  Oh, she’s cute.  Aw, look, she even has a horse.  Her bio is a tad short, but that’s not too uncommon.  Damn.  What the hell is she doing swiping right on me?  I mean, I know I’m handsome, but shit.  Kidding!  I look like Jon Heder from Napoleon Dynamite if he had elephantiasis.  

Maybe she’s a bot.  

Should I say hello?  

No.  That’s too boring.  According to that one article, from that one post, from that one author, I should be original.  Have a good opening line.  Be charming. Be clever.  Be everything that you are currently not.  

You got this.  

Eye of the fucking tiger.  

Okay, how about this:

“So, I guess we’re married now?  Is that how this works?” I type.

That’s original and funny, right?

And, send.  

Oh God.

What did I do?  

She’s too pretty for such ridiculous lines.  I should have just said hello.  

You fucking moron!

I should have just deleted the app.  Saved myself the embarrassment of not receiving a reply.  

It’s fine.  I’m fine.  We’ll see what happens.  Meanwhile, I’ll just see who else is on here.  Alright fingers, let’s get to swiping.  I crack my knuckles, like a tool.

No.

No.

No.

Yes.

Fuck yes.

No.

No.  

Match!

Would you look at that.  

Okay, here’s your opportunity to come up with a better opening line.  Be clever, dammit!

Oh, hey, there’s a GIF option. What should I search for though?  

Got it!

The Titanic sinking after striking the iceberg is a perfect representation of breaking the ice.  You clever bitch you.  

Send!

Okay, that’s enough for now.  Too much more and I’ll be drawn in.  What else should I do, though?  It’s my day off from work and I have nothing to do.  

I could text Brian.  Dammit, no, he’s having a date night with the wife.  I don’t want to interrupt them.  

Nearly every fiber in my being is telling me to clean my apartment, but I really don’t want to.  Not yet.  The mood isn’t right.  That doesn’t make any sense.  Fuck it, I just don’t want to right now.  This couch is too comfortable.  

Maybe I could make a pizza?  Oh, that’s right.  I’m on a FUCKING diet.  

A response?  From Rachel..  

“I mean, duh!” she replied in the message. Well, that doesn’t sound like a generic bot response.  Which is promising.  However, I honestly wasn’t expecting a response.

Now what the fuck do I say?

This is too hard.  Abandon the mission!  

“Fantastic!  This was much easier than everyone makes it out to be.  Wasn’t stressful at all.” I nervously type out.  

No.  Let’s change that.

“Awesome!  This was much easier than everyone makes it out to be.  It wasn’t stressful at all!” I slightly alter.  

Too many exclamation points.  

Oh, just send it already you pussy!

FINE! Send!

Oh, God.  It wasn’t right.  I fucked it up.  

Okay, so, worse comes to worst, she doesn’t reply.  Or, even worse, she does reply.  I talk to her for a while and we set up a date.  She realizes that my profile pictures are in fact me, and that I’m not a creepy, fifty year old pervert, but that I used editing software to heavily alter my pictures to make myself look better than normal.  

I need to smoke.  I can’t handle this right now.  Anxiety is going to be the death of me.  

If I smoke, though, I need to hide my phone.  I mean, I don’t normally like to text anyway, but right now I may be stupid enough to try to have a conversation and that does NOT need to happen.  

Okay, I’ll just charge it in the bedroom and I won’t feel compelled to go in there for a while because the couch will be too busy devouring my physical body.  

Speaking of devouring, I should legitimately prepare some sort of food if I’m going to smoke.  Good thing I bought grapes the other day.  To the kitchen!

As I walk into the kitchen, I immediately get punched in the throat with the scent of old food.

Fucking dishes.  Or is it the trash that’s overflowing?  Why am I this way?  I’m a disgusting son-of-a-bitch.

They both just pile up.  I’m the only one here, and yet, they continually pile up.  I’ll deal with it later.  For now, I have to smoke.  

I open the drawer beside the refrigerator and retrieve a small, wooden box.  I open it to discover its contents.

Grinder?  Check.  

Weed?  Check.

Bowl?  Check.

I open the refrigerator and reach for the bag of grapes.

Grapes?  Check.  

The only thing I don’t like about smoking is the paranoia.  I’m already a paranoid person, so it just amplifies it ten-fold, but man does it feel amazing.  I also don’t like how cold it is right now.  I hate having to go outside to smoke, but I don’t want my apartment to smell like weed.  Honestly, it’s amazing that my family still has no idea that I smoke.  I guess since I don’t smoke regularly, it hasn’t really affected my motor functions.  Is that something a pot-head would say?  

Whatever.  Let’s just pack this bowl.  Not too much though.  I need to ration out what little I have left.  

I open the bag of weed and pinch off a bit, around the size of a dime.  I seperate the grinder, placing the small amount of weed in the center before closing the grinder.

This is where I always get fucked up.  I end up grinding it too much and it becomes a powder.  That isn’t going to happen today though.  I have learned the error of my ways!

I twist the grinder five times and seperate the grinder again.  The weed is no longer a clump, nor is it a powder.  It’s perfect.

I dump the weed from the grinder onto the counter and begin to move it into the bowl, making sure not to leave even the tiniest amount.

Fuck!  Lighter!  Where the hell did it go?  I begin a frantic search.  I look in the nearby drawers, slinging papers everywhere.  I move the box of cereal from the top of the refrigerator, checking to see if it is behind it.  It isn’t..  

A-ha!  Found you, you little fucker.  I keep putting it in the cabinet above the stove for some reason.  

Okay, now I’m ready to smoke.

I grab the bowl, and the lighter, and proceed outside onto my porch.

Jesus, it’s cold as fuck outside.  

Living in the south is so confusing.  One day it’s warm and the next it’s fucking twenty degrees outside.  

I like it here though.  It’s quiet.  The Bible humpers can be a bit annoying, but for the most part, I can tolerate them.  I have nothing against religion, in fact, I used to be religious, but I really hate the people who push their agenda on you.  As long as they don’t do that, I’m great.  I would love to have to an actual, intellectual conversation about religion.  Unfortunately, no one around here seems to know how to do so.  I guess you could say the south doesn’t have good feng shui.

Ah, shit.  That doesn’t work.  It only works with furniture and shit.  I think that’s right.  Phone is too far away to check.  

I place the bowl to my mouth and light the weed.  I inhale, feeling the smoke burn as it engulfs my lungs, then I exhale the smoke towards the porch light.  

This is good weed.  

I can tell that it’s going to be a relaxing high.  Which is great because I don’t know what happened with the last batch but I was jumping off the walls.  Like, seriously jumping off of them.  Nearly broke my fucking leg.  

Oh, shit.  Don’t cough, you pussy.  You have trained for this!

I let out a hoarse series of coughs.

Fucking Hell!  My lungs!  

I take another hit, because I’m a badass.

Jesus!  Too big of a hit.  Too big!  Oh, damn!

I continue coughing, like a little bitch.

Okay, I think I’m okay now.  

I continue to smoke.  I smoke pretty quickly during the winter season, mainly because it’s too cold to be outside for too long.  Plus, the neighbors may get suspicious that I smoke and call the cops.  

They wouldn’t do that though.  Would they?

And, shit, I think it’s cashed.  

Dump the remnants over the side of the porch.

Wait.

Is it possible for the remnants to grow overtime?  Like, what if there is actually still a bit of weed left and it’s enough to grow into a plant?  Which sounds great in theory, but what if someone discovers it and reports me?  Shit.  No.  I can’t dump it here.  It’s too risky.  

I could flush it!  Genius!  Smoking always makes you smarter.  That’s why Benjamin Franklin smoked so much.  

I turn towards the door and walk back inside the much warmer house.

I should probably clean out my bowl before I forget.  

I walk into the kitchen, taking in the milky tan color of the walls of my house.  I never really noticed how beautiful the walls are here.  They’re actually quite stunning.

Fucking dishes!  I’ll just move them to one side of the sink.

I move two of the plates from one basin to the other, making room for me to clean my bowl.

That’s better.  

I begin to scrub my bowl under the flowing warm water with a nearby cloth.  This is an amazing bowl.  I’ve never had any other bowl, but I feel like this particular bowl is far-better crafted than most other bowls.  It just seems to work really well.  

Okay, bowl is rinsed.  Weed is still on the table.  Grinder is set beside it.  Everything is zen.  Got my grapes.  I’m ready for the couch.  

I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room, standing directly in front of the couch.

“Do your thing, couch.” I say, plopping down, immediately stretching out with my head on one end and my feet on the other.

Such a magical feeling, really.  Lying on your couch after a good smoke.  You just feel one with the couch.  

What the fuck am I saying?

Shit.

Did I lock the door?  

I did.

Didn’t I?

Is that knocking?

No.  It’s just the heat turning on.

Ah, the warmth feels great.  Luckily the vent is right by my face, so I’m getting all the warm air.  

I had tension that I didn’t even know I had.  My neck feels amazing right now.  My head doesn’t feel heavy.  It’s a peaceful feeling.  

Did I lock the door?

Wait.  I just asked that, didn’t I?  That was like, five minutes ago, though.  Man, I hope I did.  

I struggle to lift myself from the couch just enough to get a glimpse at the door..  My vision is blurry as shit right now.

I didn’t!

Shit.  I can’t believe someone didn’t walk in.  

I quickly sit up, fighting the vertigo and run to the door.  I lift up on the lock.

There.  Locked.  

Right?

I mean, I see that it’s locked, but I should probably pull on the door handle to make sure.

I give the door a series of pulls, testing the durability of the lock.  

Yeah, it’s locked.  

What if someone came in while it was unlocked?

No.  No one came in.  You would have noticed.  

Don’t be paranoid.  Eat your grapes and relax.

I walk back to the couch, reach into the bag of grapes, picking a few as I do, and lay down.

I should really stop smoking.  I always get like this.  It’s not worth it.  

NO!  

Stop those negative thoughts.  You’ll have a really bad high and you don’t want that.  I’m just going to close my eyes and ride the wave.  I should turn on some music, but that requires me to get up and get my phone from the other room.  Is it worth it?  Sure, it is.  Then I can actually lay in bed and go to sleep.  

Okay, one, two, three, and up!  

Standing is hard!

I’m going to collapse on my bed when I...wait.  I never went to my bedroom.  Shit, my phone was under me the entire time.  

I have a message.  What do I do?  Should I read it?  If I do, I’ll be tempted to respond, and I do NOT need to do that.  

I’m not going to respond.  

I’m just going to put my phone on the table in front of me and just relax.  Relaxation is my friend and I’m hanging out.  I place the phone on the table in front of me.

Okay, so maybe it won’t hurt to read it.  

I grab the phone and unlock it.

“Was it a good wedding?  I don’t remember.”

What the fuck is she talking about?

Oh!  Shit!  That’s right.  I said the thing.  Yeah, I can’t respond to that right now.  Back on the table you go!  

How do I even respond to that?  I can’t even begin to formulate the words for that kind of thing right now.  Like, I guess it was good?  I could type that.  No.  Formulate your thoughts when you’re sober, man!  

Doesn’t remember our wedding?  I laugh at your forgetfulness!  You were probably too busy being blackout drunk!  

That’s not bad, actually.  I may have to spruce it up a bit, though.  Okay.  Come here, phone.  

Let me up, couch!

After struggling for a minute, I sit up and grab my phone from the table.

Gotcha!

Okay, so, let’s see here.  

“Wait, you don’t remember?!  I was banking on you to remind me how it went.  Guess we were too wasted from the open bar.”

There.  That should work.  Should I put an emoji?  No, emojis are stupid.  Don’t be lame!  

Send!

Okay, back to the table you go, and back into the couch I go.  

That wasn’t too bad of a response, right?  Nah, it’s fine.  You’re fine.  You’re just freaking out.  It’s natural.  Everything is great.  

Okay.  I should really go to bed.  I need to sleep.  I’m not mentally prepared for this.  

Last time, couch.  

I push myself up from the couch and walk towards my bedroom.

I gently place myself onto my bed and pull the covers up to face because it’s fucking cold.  

I shut my eyes and prepare for glorious sleep.

Wait.  

Did I lock the door?

#story #novel #chapter #chapter 2 #new chapter #writing

[tilleys89-blog]

Chapter One

This isn’t going to work.

You talk way too much.

You smack your mouth when you chew.

Oh, and you have a FUCKING bat on your head.

This date is completely fucked.

"How's your food?" She asks, patting the moist marinara sauce from around her top lip.

It's about as bland as your personality.

"It's delicious!  This place never disappoints." I reply with a shit-eating grin.  "How's yours?"

"It's really good!" She replies, rather enthusiastically.  It's honestly annoying how enthusiastic her response was.  I've had the spaghetti here.  It's mediocre at best.

"So, you're a student at UNC, yeah?"

"Mmmhhhmmm." She twirls saucy noodles around her fork, scraping her plate obnoxiously.  "I'm about to graduate though, so I'm really, really excited!"

"That's awesome!  I actually miss college."

"I could see that.  I mean, college is one of those experiences that we're always going to cherish, or so they say.  My parents were always pushing for me to go.  Where I'm from, people didn't really attend college.  People just got fucking pregnant and dropped out of high school..."

Do you ever shut up?  You ramble constantly.  Which is a major turn-on, especially on the first fucking date, said nobody ever.

Fuck you, Brian.  Making me sign up for that dating app.  “Oh, it’ll be great!  You’ll get matched with tons of girls and go on great dates!”  I'm on this shitty date because of your stupid-ass suggestion, you fuck.  

I mean, realistically, it's not his fault.  I am the one who swiped left, anyway.

Like a fucking idiot.  

Always thinking with my dick instead of my brain.  Isn't that the point of dating apps, though?

I feel like an asshole.

I mean, I know I'm not.  Or at least, I try not to be.

Life is just--- it’s fucking complicated, you know?

"My family visited the Grand Canyon back in '05, and I remember thinking to myself, this place is overrated as fuck.  There's no point in traveling here just to see a god-damned crater in the ground..."

Oh my God.  She's still talking.  Just smile and nod.

What if she sees through it though?  

What if she knows that I’m not mentally here?

What would she do?

Would she cry?  Oh, God.  I can't deal with that today.

No.  She doesn't seem like the crying type.  It’s much more likely that if she does recognize that I’m not really paying attention, she'll just invite me back to her place for sex and then chop my dick off right as I’m about to climax.

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?

"So, then I told Jessie to just wait in the car, because I’m about to fuck this bitch up.” She laughingly states.

Who the fuck is Jessie?

Oh, a waiter.  Perfect.

"More water, sir?" The waiter asks, tipping the clear pitcher towards my glass.

"Yes, please, that would be great." I move my glass to the edge of the table and he begins to pour.  "Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome."

Please don’t leave!

“Sorry!  I know I can ramble a lot sometimes.  It drives people fucking nuts sometimes and they get upset with me.”

You don’t say?

“What?  That’s insane.  You’re totally fine.” I say, smiling through my teeth.

“Yeah, I mean, I was an only child, so I just remember a lot and like to explain every little detail.  I don’t really mean to, I just feel compelled to do so.  Like, there was this one friend I had back in eighth grade and she had a cell-phone, one of those little flip-phone ones.  Do you remember those?

Smile and nod.

“Yeah, so I was telling her how when I was, like, I don’t know, six, maybe?  Anyway, I was really young, and…” Jesus fucking Christ.  How long can she keep this up?

I enjoy talking as much as the next person, but give it a break already.  

She is pretty, though.  

I mean, clearly this isn’t going to work, but damn is she not hot.  Her eyes are incredibly blue.  They’re piercing.  Captivating.  Hypnotic.

Her hair is the perfect shade of brown.  And it’s wavy.  Wavy hair is nice.  I mean, curly hair is great too, but I’m a big fan of the wave.  

I just love a girl with a good head of hair.  

I just can’t believe she wears a fucking bat on her head.  

I mean, who in their right mind goes to a taxidermist, requests to have a bat stuffed, and then turns it into a headband?  Like, seriously.  That thing is easily the most bizarre thing that I have ever seen as an accessory.  The worst part is that it’s staring me. If she wanted a stuffed bat to rest on her head, could she not have turned it around or something?

Stop looking at it, you freak!

“So, we were almost at the top of the mountain, I’m fucking winded, and she’s…”

Wait.  Weren’t we just talking about cell-phones?  Maybe she’s talking about bad reception on a mountain?  It may be a good idea to give her the impression that you’re actually listening.  Think of something, dammit!

“Ugh, cell-phones are the worst on mountains.” I confidently chime in.

“They’re the fucking worst.”

Success!  She bought it!  

I smile at the elderly woman with her possible grandson sitting at a nearby table.  She doesn’t look too happy.  Probably because she’s close to death?  That’s rude.  I’m an asshole.   Maybe it’s the language that has her upset?  People are so offended by language and honestly, it’s fucking stupid.  Or, maybe it’s the bat on this girl’s head?  Maybe she’s staring at me as if I need help out of this situation.  Maybe I can just stare back at her pleadingly and she’ll rescue me.

“What would you like to do after this?” She asks.  

“I don’t know!  What would you like to do?” I reply.

“Hrmmmm, would you want to go to Natty’s Pub?  Oh, wait, you’re taking a break from beer.”

“Yeah, but I’ll still go if you want.  I can drink water.”

“No, no.  It’s okay.  Hrmmm…” She says, quickly pondering over the ideas on how she plans to kill me and dispose of my body.

“We can go wherever.  I’m down for anything, seriously.”

Why am I encouraging this?  This is my chance to leave and I’m still pretending to be interested.  Get out, dammit!

“Oh, I know.  We could go walking around Battleground Park?” She suggests.

Fuck! “Yeah, sure, that sounds great, actually.”

What the fuck are you doing?!  

“Cool!  Well, I guess we can get the check and head out?”

“Sure thing!”

Okay, but I’m not paying the entire bill.  You had two glasses of wine, while I only had water.  Plus, maybe then she’ll recognize that it’s not really working out and decide to just head home.  It’s perfect.  

“Excuse me, waiter?”She calls out.

Yes, that’s it.  Get his attention and be prepared to fork out all of your money for your bill!  Mwahahaha!

“You guys all set?” The waiter asks.

“I think so.” I say.

“Great.  I’ll leave this right here for you and I’ll be back to take it in a few.” He says, placing the bill on the table near my glass of water.  I hate it when they do that.  They know it’s just going to get wet.

Shit.  It’s all on the same ticket.  Why do they just assume that only one person is going to pay?  People can split the checks.  It’s 2018, dammit!

“Actually, you can take it right now, if you’d like.” I say, reaching into my wallet and placing my debit card into the black bill-holder.  

“Great, I’ll have this back to you in a moment.”  

“Thanks.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” She says to me, her hand still in her purse.  I wonder if she’s reaching for some sort of communication device for bats.  Maybe that’s why she has that thing on her head.  It’s a symbol of her ability to utilize echolocation to communicate to bats.  Any minute now, a swarm of bats are going to burst through the window and carry her to her cave by her arms.

“Oh, it’s fine.  I got it.” I respond, giving a soft chuckle.

“Okay, well, I’ll get next time.”  

Next time?

“Okay.” I smile, attempting not to stare at the carcass residing on her head.  

Why am I fascinated with that thing?  It’s been well over an hour.  Get ahold of yourself!

“So, you’ve been to that park before?” I ask.

“I have, yeah, with my previous boyfriend.  Ugh.  Don’t even get me started on that though.” She replies.

“That bad, huh?”

“He was the fucking worst.  I dated him for three years and during the last year of our relationship, I found out that he was a drug dealer.”

It took you that long to figure that out?  Were you high?

“What?  That’s so wild.  So you had no idea?” I ask.

“None.  I don’t know how I didn’t see it.”

Guess you were blind as a bat.  

“Like, I’m sorry, I don’t do drugs, and I’m not going to date someone who does them, much less sells them.  You know?”

I smoked a bowl before coming here.

“Nah, I feel you.  I don’t do drugs.”

“Good.  I honestly thought that you might when I first saw your picture, but that’s only because of the hair.  Don’t get me wrong, you have great hair, but most druggies have long hair.” She states like a rude fucking fuck.

I laugh before reassuringly saying, “I get that all the time.”

She has a sip of wine. “So, what all drugs was he selling?” I ask, trying to sound as judgmental as I possibly can.

“I know he was selling at least weed, though it was probably others, too.  Apparently he was a big supplier back in Ohio.”

Real shame he lives in Ohio.  I need a new source.  

“I say was, but I don’t know, he probably still does it.”

“That’s crazy.” I say, shaking my head.  “Luckily I never got too into it.  Growing up, I had some friends who smoked, but I never really felt the desire to.”

“That’s good.  Nothing good comes from it.”

You only think that because you haven’t been high.

“I don’t know.  I don’t feel like it’s any worse than alcohol.” I say, like an intellectual.

“Maybe.  I dunno.  Let’s talk about something else, I hate talking about this sort of thing.” She says, like a coward.  

See, that’s how this shit works.  I actually find a topic worth talking about and then the other party wants to change topics.  It’s such bullshit.  

“Do you have any siblings?” She asks, finishing off the last of her wine.

“Nah, no siblings.  I’m an only child, as well.”

“Oh, so you get it.  Did it have an effect on you at all?”  

“Nah, not really.  I mean, maybe I’m not as social as I could be because of that, but nothing too damaging.  I think that having a brother or a sister helps develop social skills, or at the very least, helps you acquire those skills quicker.”  I say.  

“Tell me about it.  I didn’t really have a lot of friends growing up.  I still don’t, really.  I mean, I have, like, a core group of friends and my bestie, Christina, but that’s about it.”

“Thanks for coming in, guys.  Have a great rest of your evening.” The waiter says before dropping off my debit card.  I pick it up and place it into my wallet.  

“Thanks, you too.” I smile and put my jacket on.  Her phone begins to ring and she checks to see who’s calling.

“It’s my mom.  I’m sorry, I should probably take this.  I’ll be right back.” She leaves from the table and starts walking towards the bathroom.

I should just tell her that it’s not going to work.  I feel bad about that because she really seems to like me, but I just don’t think I can date someone who talks that much and wears a bat on her head, no matter how pretty they are.  

This is a nice place though.  I really like the simplicity of it.  Minimal overhead lighting.  Circular tables that are big enough to comfortably seat two people, and they even have little lit candles in the middle.  It’s definitely a nice place to take someone on a date, albeit the food could just a touch of improvement.  The columns are nice though.  They have that faded white look with gigantic cracks throughout.  

I wonder how Italians feel about America’s version of Italian food.  I can’t imagine that they’d be too thrilled with the quality.  Don’t get me wrong, I love America’s version of Italian food, but that’s due in part to the fact that I’ve never had legitimate Italian food. For all I know, I may hate real Italian food.  I doubt it, but it’s definitely a possibility.

I don’t think Italy would be my first intercontinental trip, though.  I really want to travel to Iceland, but everyone and their cousin is traveling there right now, and honestly, it frustrates the hell out of me.  I’m not one of those hipsters who only enjoys going to places that tourists don’t like to travel, but up until a year ago, people around here didn’t ever want to go there.  See, that’s how it works, I think about going there one day, and then the next day, everyone is booking their trip there.  

I don’t think I could eat the food there, though.  I like fish, but not all the time.  I suppose I could try lamb.  I’ve never had it, but if the people of Iceland like it, then I’m sure it’s not so bad.  That’s how it works, right?

I need to try more foods and stop being as picky as I am.

“Hey, so I’m really sorry about this, but I actually have to head home.”

Jesus!  When did she get back?  She’s even sitting at the table.  How did that happen?  Is she a witch?  Does she have powers?  Also, more importantly, how long have I been staring at this column?  

“Oh, no way.  Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, she just wants me to help clean out the chicken coup.  Wanna help?” She replies, giving out a quick laugh.  “Totally kidding.”

I smile and say, “Yeah, I’m not sure how well I’d be at handling chickens.”   “I’m sure you pick up chicks all the time.” She says, giving an awkward, sort of cute wink with both eyes.  “But we will definitely go to the park next time.” She says while putting on her coat.

I stand up from my seat and tuck my chair under the table.

“Oh, for sure!”  

We walk towards the exit of Mario’s.

“Have a great day.” The hostess says as we exit.

“Thanks, you too.” I reply.

I push the door open and hold it as Michelle walks out.  We walk towards our vehicles which are parked beside one another.  

“Thanks for taking me here!  I really liked it.”  She says, her eyes sparkling under the nearby glow from the parking lot light.

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites.” I reply.

“I can see why.  It’s awesome.”  

We stop at her Subaru.  

“Well, text me later?” She says, looking at me with a seriously adorable smile on her face.  

“Yeah, definitely.”  

“Kay.”

She stares at me.  Her hands fidgeting in front her.  Her legs crossing, ever so slightly.  

It’s the look.  

She wants a kiss.  

Well, I guess it won’t hurt.  I take a soft step towards her and lean over to place my lips onto hers.  She kisses me.  Her arm drops to her side as I place my hand on her cheek.  I caress my thumb along her jawline and slowly begin moving my hand up past her ear and to her hair.

OH MY GOD.  

I touched it.  I touched the fucking bat.  

Play it cool.  Remove your hand slowly from her head and move away from her lips.  

“Be safe driving home.” I say to her, fighting to crack a smile.  

“Thanks, you too.  Text me, okay?”

Text you?  I’m going to be sanitizing my hand for the next three years.  

“Oh, definitely.”  

She steps into her vehicle and starts the ignition.  I walk over to my car and step inside.  I reach for the bottle of hand sanitizer in the middle console.  I squirt some onto my hands and vigorously massage them together.  

Perhaps I’m overreacting.  I mean, it’s cleaned.  It’s not like she just grabbed it from the road and put it on her head.  It’s just weird, right?  I mean, it could have been something crazier.  Like, she could have had a snake as a hair-bow or something.  

I don’t know.

Dating is hard.  

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