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I fucked up.
I waited too long.
I did this.
It’s all fucking me and my inability to face my demons in hell.
I did it.
Me and no one else.
I watch, barely feeling my body as the distance between us stretches, each step leaching strength from my body.
At the sound of her voice and the laughter of his, it hits me how empty I feel. And how little she needs me. Maybe I made the whole thing up in my head.
In reality, I've felt empty and fractured since I was seven years old, only I had the means to mask the emptiness before. It’s been dawning on me these last few weeks that the convenient balms I've been using no longer seem to soothe the pain the way they once did.
As the couple venture further in the evening light, their movements easy, their laughter effortless, it doesn’t escape me that maybe that’s what she needs—a man who doesn’t carry a fucking lead weight around him everywhere he goes…
As I watch them, torn between ripping the arm that she’s holding out of its socket and turning around and never coming back, there’s a noise from somewhere—the beep of a horn, loud and suspended, some asshole who doesn’t know road etiquette and as I turn to look in that direction, so does she.
Her face pivots a little… and further… and further… until… her gaze crashes into mine, like some high beam lighting up a dark path.
She continues walking only to stop dead in her tracks as the man next to her follows suit, looking down at her as she remains immobile before turning slowly, her whole body now facing mine from a third of a block away.
After a few seconds, I see her mutter something to him as he begins to stare at me, eyes widening.
Unsure what to do, but seeing as I've caused this momentary standstill and avoiding confrontation is not usually my style, I begin to walk towards them slowly, if only so that I can drink in her fucking face again and be sure I didn’t make her whole existence up in my head—the inexplicable magic I felt when I peered down in amusement at her defiant little features, when I swam in her deep wide-set mossy eyes, when I contemplated how perfect her plump lips would look wrapped around my cock, or covered in my cum…
As I make it to within fifteen feet of them, her hand grips the man’s arm tightly and my eyes slide to him—handsome with perfectly groomed black hair and wearing… a fucking red and white spotted bow tie.
Maybe I’m a judgmental prick, but I already know just by his ungrounded energy that this fool couldn’t make her come if his tongue came with ten different vibrate settings.
Her brows furrow, displeasure and confusion painted over the features of her sensational face. And hurt.
“I… I’m sorry I didn’t… call… first,” I say, realizing I stammered for the first time in memory.
She shakes her head slowly, her fingertips digging into her date’s arm. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just… in the neighborhood”—an internal groan of about 9.5 on the Richter scale drones through my body at the excuse—“and I… I wanted to… I… I wondered if you were free to… talk… for a few minutes. I guess not…”
Her face hardens, her jaw clenching, and as I realize I’m staring at her most intently, I remember the prick she’s clinging to, deciding that today will be a good day to try to exorcise some semblance of self-control, seeing as I’m the one rolling up here uninvited. Plus I can tell from his skinny frame that I have about fifty pounds of muscle on him. Beating him to a pulp would be beneath me, even if the sight of her fingers pressing into his bicep makes me want to feed his arm into a wood chipper.
Slowly.
I find his eyes, holding his gaze firmly. “I’m Greyson.”
“Yoshi,” he replies. “And, yeah, I, um, I've heard a lot about you.”
As he says it, Indie’s head tilts, her eyes widening as she shoots him what I believe is a “Please shut the fuck up” glare which allows a glimmer of relief to crawl through my body before she comes to face me again, lifting her little chin with the utmost defiance.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she responds, her voice breathy, as if she can’t catch air. “But I have plans for tonight, so that’ll be ano.” She practically booms the last word, speaking fast as if desperate to say it. The word plunges us into weight silence for a few moments but for the whistle of an increasingly feisty wind.
I nod, just as her date turns to look down at her. “I mean… he could come along, maybe?” Despite the second piquant glare she arrows at him, he continues, “It’s her mom’s birthday party.”
“Well, he… hecan’tcome,” she snaps. “It’s invitation only. Sorry.”
“I mean, it’s kind of informal. Are you sure he can’t tag along?” asks her date, raising his eyebrows and wincing as if to brace himself. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the man was actively trying to get me to join them which would make no sense unless… he’s into being cuckolded, something I could gladly accommodate, except for the fact that I may have to talk myself out of gouging his eyeballs out afterwards for having seen her little body naked.
