Circumstances[LOWWC]

Just dump her, Derrick stomped his dirty boots on my desk and leaned back in my office chair. One of my oldest friends, he had recently taken up chewing tobacco and was working over a sizable lump tucked into one of his well-tanned cheeks. His boots were dirty, his clothes stained with mud that I could feel rubbing into the worn leather of my chair.

“Let me show you how it’s done.” he spat the wad inexpertly out of his mouth into the water-bottle he carried for that purpose, and much more in keeping with the theater kid and nerd that had become my friend a decade ago, and in a passable imitation of me, “Good women, please desist from your amorous overtures and remove yourself from my corpus.”

“I sound only vaguely like that” I muttered as I poked aimlessly at a cup of microwaved macaroni. “Anyway I don’t think she’d understand that.”
“No, you’re right there but if you don’t do it soon, I will.” Derrick leaned down to me, his usually carefree face wrinkled with worry, “Seriously though, it’s embarrassing for you. It’s no good for her either.”

He was right. It was embarrassing for me. Molly, my girlfriend, had met me once on Halloween night, Valleyfair, then asked me out, and in the euphoria of having someone of the opposite gender take an interest in me I said yes. So we sat awkwardly around a table at her cramped and smoke stained house, making terse conversation while her sister stared at me from the sofa across the room. She was a strange one.

“Don’t do that.” I said rather more sharply than I intended, “She wouldn’t take it well coming from you.”

“They always take it well comeing from me!” He made a particularly rude gesture and stood up. I could see the dirt on my chair, crumbling down the back into the unreachable and uncleanable chasm between back and seat. “Do it though, you’ve let it go on too long.” He was right again. Four months with a girl that I very nearly hated was too much. I had great high-minded notions of chivalry, and even in my most resentful moods I would never have called her ugly, or stupid, or annoying no matter the circumstances; I just didn’t like her.

Three months before Derrick and I sat in my basement, among the odd bobbles, flags, swords, and books I collected, she had meticulously planned her first kiss. There was a street light outside her house, and in a light November snow she stood up on tip-toe closing her eyes expectantly, waiting for me..

I leaned down, my breath turning to crystals in the air, studying in-depth every crease in her face and thinking to myself not for the first time how those long red hairs could ever get so tousled. My lips brushed her... forehead, and planted something that would have made even the most prudish grandmother wrinkle her brow in disappointment.

Molly’s did almost immediately. She didn’t say anything but as she turned for her door I knew she was already starting to cry. I was told by a dear friend ‘a girl only has one first.’ From their tone, I assumed every girl expected fireworks, glass slippers, and inexplicable music. I disappointed Molly on all those scores and more.

I tried to breakup with her the next day over Friendster, tucked away in my own empty, sprawling house. I am such a coward. “Look Molly.... I don’t think it’s working out....” It took her longer than usual to respond, “Is this because I’m not takeing you to bedroom?”

Good heavens? Is that what type of person she thinks I am?... I mean.... I just said good heavens. “No Molly I swear it’s not that, you’re a lovely girl, very beautiful and very smart, I just don’t think we’re meant to.” I could hear her crying from ten miles away, in big wet sobs that wracked her body, the way she always cried.

“I can change. I can be better.” Her response was completely emotionless which terrified me. I knew about the thin scars on her wrist and arms, though had never said anything about them. I imagined them getting deeper, pouring streams of blood onto her pink and white sheets, spattering across the collection of stuffed animals the stood sentry so innocently above her bed.

No. It’s not you, it’s us, you are wonderful but... ‘we’ aren’t together. “No. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t deserve a girlfriend like you... I mean... I can’t even kiss properly.” I just can’t say no.

Two months later, I had stopped using Friendster, ‘accidentally’ broken my phone and developed as many bad habits as I could. By the time Derrick had his feet up on my desk it was January, and snow buried my car more often than seemed possible. I was having mechanical trouble too. Darn brake pads. Molly still wouldn’t take the hint, no matter how many times I broached the subject or tried to suggest she’d be happier with someone else. She would just try harder.

“Come over,” she said one day after our classes at Shore View High School let out and I was trying to sneak away unseen, “I made you a birthday cake.”

Dog Died? Don’t own a dog. Mother sick? She’d know. Arsenic poisoning? Too dramatic. Yes. “Sure, that sounds great.” Luckily Molly didn’t live too far away from the school and it was only a five minute walk to her empty house, which smelled like cigarettes and wet dog had been ground into the dark shaggy carpets. She unlocked the door, and kicked the mound of shoes her sister kept by the entrance away from the lintel and onto the dirty linoleum of the kitchen floor. I started to walk forward, searching for my cake. Her hand shot out to grab mine; it was clammy.

“Not that way.” She said with a knowing little smile.
“But.... that’s the kitchen. That’s where cakes are.”

“Pfft,” It was one of her trademark noises and she smiled ever so slightly as she said, “Your cake isn’t in the kitchen. It’s downstairs.” There were only three rooms downstairs, a dank moldy laundry room, crusted over with chemical cleaning products and stacked on two walls with boxes of Diet Dr. Pepper, a sun-room where Molly kept her elderly and incontinent dog, and her compulsively cleaned bedroom.
She began to pull, her little hands dwarfed in mine but somehow exerting the strength of an... arm wrestling... circus bear. She lead me down the five carpeted steps to her bedroom and quietly closed the door, pushing me onto the cold wall with her free hand. Cake is a metaphor!The cake is a lie!

“Can you guess what flavor your cake is?” Molly pulled off her shirt, in a movement that must have been practiced, it was so smooth and effortless. I didn’t stop her, it was the first time I had ever seen a woman half dressed. Her dolls sat stony face, staring in judgement at me. She smiled...

“Molly,” The words came out in a rush, my tongue making up for lost time, “This really isn’t a good idea, I mean you’re not even eighteen. And what if your parents come home? We shouldn’t do this.” She stopped. In my mind I cursed myself for rejecting this woman, both for me and her. I could already imagine the tears welling up in her eyes, and the Exacto knife she kept in a jar on her desk slowly lancing down into her tiny wrists. “I mean to say, that maybe we should wait a bit, you know?” I was terrified of being trapped forever.

She slumped back onto the floor, the predicted tears forming in her eyes, “I’m never good enough. I never do anything right! I know I don’t look good, I’m too fat, pimples on my back... but you couldn’t just....?” She waved her hands around as she stepped away from the bed, looking dejected and small. I gulped in stale air, doing the mathematics of rejection in my head.

You’re not fat. “You’re not fat.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Molly said bitterly, pulling her blouse up over her and twisting it in her hands, “I hate myself.”

Don’t hate yourself! Hate me! Hate me? Please? “Molly,” I said slowly, carefully measuring every word. My eyes were locked straight above me on the brass etched ceiling fan, “Come here.” I stuck out my arms and beckoned her back, “We should do this... I love you.” I don’t love you. Even if she didn’t hate me, I did.

By March we had gone our separate ways, she called me ‘jerk’ and ‘liar’ and accused me of practically every crime short of witchcraft. I encouraged her, urging her to probe and develop every flaw in my personality, relishing the abuse like so many purifying Hail Mary’s. She raged for days after I finally had the courage to say ‘No more,’ and I soaked up the abuse like it was somehow equal to what I had done, feeling a little lighter after every jab. Eventually, I told myself, it counted as absolution. Eventually I told myself, I did the right thing.

Two years later, I’m nineteen and can use Friendster now without fear, I have a working phone; I can sit in my chair any time, but sometimes at night I type her name into Friendster and look at the limited information that her privacy selections allow me to see. We haven’t spoken since, and the tiny profile picture is all that I know about her. She looks happy. I now resent the fact that it happened but I will never resent her. I wish I could explain to Molly how much of a coward I am, reassure her with every bit of honesty that she is beautiful, and say ‘I’m sorry’. But how do you form those words? How do you make them sound any more believable than ‘It’s not you, it’s me?’

peace,sugarcookie1

reply to post by sugarcookie1
Nice story sugar! Would love to see you write the same story from the perspective of the young lady. Keep up the good work!

reply to post by littled16


littled16
Thank you so muchI thought about making the story from the perspective of a young lady then i thought lets switch it up and make it about the perspective for a young man and his girl something different for me..peace,sugarcookie1

reply to post by sugarcookie1


Wow.

Such a poignant example of how life really works. Well written, grammatically smooth, and you had me reading every word, wanting more....

This is another story that deserves to win. It's not just a story, but a story within a story, and rare that so few words are crafted into such a remarkable tale.

The imagery you present allows the reader to be right there, and it's rare a Writer captures that essence.

Nice, sugar. Well done.

reply to post by Druid42


Druid42
Thank you for the kind words i appreciate that..One thing i do have is an imagination and i hope people that take the time to read this see that in this short tale..peace,sugarcookie1

I liked it sugarcookies.
Nice work.Very detailed .

Peace,
K

reply to post by kdog1982


kdog, thanks for droping in and taking the time to read my story peace,sugarcookie1

reply to post by sugarcookie1




Now here we go.
I love the details and all the little nuances.

Great work Sugar

reply to post by SLAYER69


Thank you Slayer for the nice comments..peace,sugarcookie1

Nice story which is very well written,. Well done indeed!

reply to post by TheDoctor46


TheDoctor46...thanks for comeing in to read my
story i hope you ejyoyed it..peace,sugarcookie1

reply to post by sugarcookie1


Very Nice story!

reply to post by sonnny1


Thank you sonnny1

reply to post by sugarcookie1


Wow, I feel like I just read a snippet of my biography.

reply to post by sugarcookie1


I always feel that a good story is one that is detailed enough to bring me into another realm for a while, leaving me wanting more.

Such was the case with this one, very very good story telling ! S&F !

reply to post by ZASHTO


ZASHTO
Thank you for reading my story..Actually this is a snippet of a true story from a family member that did drop his lady of 2 years i just took it twisted it around made it more dramatic ..peace,sugarcookie1

reply to post by SonoftheSun


SonoftheSun
Thank you so much for reading the story im glad you enjoyed it..peace,sugarcookie1

reply to post by sugarcookie1


Nice short story. Concise and well written
with an all to familiar theme. Looking foreward to another story.
I'm sure you keyboard is loaded with many more.

reply to post by sugarcookie1
Very beautifully written and a real life story indeed.

Good work and well done.

reply to post by sugarcookie1


I really enjoyed this short story.

Thanks for writing it. s&f

-nat the blue cat-