The Stalemate Ends
Written by: Amorica Croce
I sit listening to a play list that logistically makes absolutely no sense to anyone but me: and I think of him. Of all the things I write and then rip up in a million pieces. I think of all the times I make voice recordings of what I can’t say…only to erase them seconds after I listen to how ridiculous I might sound to anyone with any kind of sense at all. It’s such a girl thing to do. Nonetheless I do it, we do it, women in general. We create these relationships that don’t exist. It has yet to be scientifically proven but women can actually envision the moment of a first kiss to dieing in the arms of the object of their affection in less than thirty seconds. It is either a significant sign of evolution or the saddest state of affairs known to man.
All this and more while I watch him pump his gas; in the same place he’d done it for the last ten years. It’s amazing how someone so great can be so predictable in the most trivial of instances. His hair was amazing. Never out of place–not even a millimeter: thick, jet black, and curly. That jacket clung to him like nothing I’d ever seen before except for how I’d seen it on him. I could feel the saliva gathering to the rim of my lips, almost and ever so slightly, trickling from the corner of my mouth. David was his name. I’d watched him for so long I could literally be a living testament to the evolution of his sex appeal. He must have brushed up against me paying for gas twenty or thirty times over the last ten years-not that he’d noticed. Our polite exchanges of “I’m sorry” and “Excuse me” paled in comparison to what I’d dreamt about before and after those few seconds of bliss. I can’t even count the times I sat alone in the window of that run of the mill super standard coffee shop franchise reaping the benefits of free WIFI just to catch a glimpse of him. I even know how David takes his coffee: large, four creams, four sugars.
But guys like David don’t notice girls like me. They notice the tall blonde who walks into their salon with already salon perfect hair, nails, and body. Guys like David become hair stylists so they can be in constant contact with those kinds of women. Because, let’s face it folks there are two kinds of people in this world: the kinds that go to the “Salon” and the rest of us who go see a “Hairdresser”. People like me we never get our hair touched by people like David: it simply costs too much. Me, I watch David from a coffee shop window and fantasize about what it would be like have all eight inches of him deep inside me…then I go home and fuck myself: because that’s just what I can afford: economically, emotionally, and mentally. (more…)
