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ANGEL WITH HER DIRTY WINGS
OCTOBER 31ST 2001
AOIFE
“I am sodamn sorry about what happened in there.” Catching a hold of my hand, Paul led me away from a crowd of nearby partygoers, as he tried to weasel his way back into my good books.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as a black Honda Civic tore back up the entrance of the pavilion, causing my heart to hammer violently.
He was back.
The car door opened, and out fell a laughing Joey, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a can of Dutch Gold in his hand.
Unsteady on his feet, he banged the roof of the car to signal goodbye, before waving the car off.
Laughing to himself, he took a drag of his smoke and looked around, eyes finally landing and staying on me.
I waved at him.
He raised his hand to wave back but stopped when his gaze flicked to Paul.
His smile disappeared.
“You were only dancing,” Paul continued, drawing my attention back to him. “I get it now. I was being a tool. I’m sorry, Aoif. I am.” Blowing out a frustrated breath, he let go of my hand to run his hands through his hair. “I’m a jealous, asshole, okay? I can’t help it. Look at you.”
“Look at me?” Folding my arms across my chest, I leaned against the parked car at my back, and gave him a hard look. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re beautiful and I lose my head around you.”
“Flattery won’t get you out of this,” I warned, flicking my gaze back to find Joey had disappeared from sight. “You called me a slutanda whore.”
“Aoife, come on,” he tried to plead. “You know I didn’t mean it. I don’t really feel that way about you.”
“If you don’t mean it, then you shouldn’t say it,” I snapped, unable to mask the emotion in my voice.
Because ithurt.
Having him think that way about me was not a good feeling.
Our relationship was a goddamn trainwreck, but it hurt to hear him say those things to me because before we hooked up, we were friends.
I’d always known that Paul was materialistic and vain. It never used to bother me that much because I had plenty of flaws myself.
I was loud and outspoken, could entice an argument from a silent monk – as my father liked to remind me, and I was especially slow to get intimate.
He always tolerated my flaws and therefore I tolerated his.
But lately, I was beginning to think that being able to mutually tolerate one another wasn’t a good enough reason to stay in a relationship.
Especially when said relationship was starting to weigh heavily on my shoulders.
“Look, I think it’s pretty clear that we’re not working out,” I heard myself finally work up the courage and tell him. “I’m not happy, and you’re not happy, so I don’t see why we should continue—"
“Don’t say it,” he warned, eyes wild with panic, as he grabbed my hands and pulled me towards him. “We’re not breaking up, Aoife. It’s not happening, so get it out of your head.”
“Get it out of my head?” I slapped his hands away. “You don’t get to make all of the decisions here, Paul. I have a say in whether or not I want to be in this relationship. You can’t force me.”
“You want him.”
