(last edited on April 7, 2006)
He felt safe, somehow, in the plush upholding upholstery of the seat he reclined in. Outside it was dark, muggy, and cool after a bright, hot, and occasionally rainy day. The lights passed by his window with increasing regularity as the vehicle exited onto the local roads of his area. He sat wordlessly after a day of distractingly entertaining enjoyment and mirth, next to one of the few friends with which he truly did enjoy lengthy conversation. He did not, however, jeopardize his inexplicable sense of feeling safe by speaking the subject on his mind. And with the subject preoccupying his mind, this masquerader of feelings could not muster so much as a word. The drive in silence continued, though he himself was deafened by the roar of conflicting thoughts in his mind.
He saw his house—not really his—approaching. He could now escape. He intended to either sleep it off, or write it off. Calm, he told himself. No... not calm, he corrected. Not calm at all. Indeed, he would rather feel the negativity flow throughout his system, traversing every inch of his body, saturating every pore until it concentrated in his fingers, forcing them to expel it from his body in the form of written language. He could write when he left the car... or he could sleep.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said automatically. He then added, with an equally automated tone, “I really do appreciate it.”
“No problem,” his friend replied. She mustered a quizzical smile. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” he responded with such an isn’t-it-obvious? tone that he could not even fool himself.
“You sure?” she asked, more prompting him to speak than really asking. He did not take the bait.
“I’m fine!” he reiterated. “Hey, thanks again. Take care and goodnight!”
“Take care, okay?” she replied.
He slammed the door after fully exiting the car, turned, and started towards the door to his house. She began to pull out of the driveway, turning her car to leave the way she came. She stopped as she pulled onto the road, and, after a moment’s hesitation, turned off the car.
“Hey, kid,” she called from the window. “I know you’re not fine. I saw the way your face was twitching in the car. I do tend to notice things, like when you don’t say a word for half an hour while you twitch the way you do when you get supremely pissed off about something.”
He paused for a long time. Finally, he replied without any force or sincerity.
“I was twitching?” It was not a good answer at all, nor did he intend it to be. He would have rather jumped straight into what was bothering him—but often he found the words to articulate his thoughts to be elusive. This obvious delay would buy him some more time to think about what he wanted to say and what he wanted to keep private.
“I know what you’re doing,” she replied, “and I’m not playing.” And he knew it was true, too. She knew what he was doing, and he knew she wouldn’t play—and he also knew that she knew she wasn’t supposed to.
“I’m doing something?” he asked, his pride wounded by the lack of pretense.
“Yeah, you’re trying to get me to beg you to tell me what’s wrong. I’m not playing. I’m you’re friend, and that’s why I’m not going to play this at all.”
He briefly entertained dropping the whole matter and going inside. However, a mass of hot-headedness surged throughout him, and he instead wheeled around and shot back a verbal salvo. “Where the—what—how the fuck is this right?!” he half cried, half screamed much louder than even he expected. “Why—I—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing!”
She watched, somewhat shocked herself, as he continued.
“I work a fucking job that has nothing to do with who I am! I put on a fucking mask, toss myself into a den of fucking inconsiderate assholes who think people with nametags are their personal targets, deal with stupid people who ask stupid questions that could be answered by a nanosecond’s worth of common sense, and the only way I can stay there without all kinds of pressure on me is to sell them on useless add-ons that cost too much. I have to sell Thing A over Thing B when there’s no difference but the mark up, I get to lie with my mask on all day, and I get paid for it!”
She began to speak his name, to respond, but he, his floodgates now open, interrupted.
“And you!” he screamed, almost spitting. He began walking towards the car with uncertain steps. “What the fuck is wrong with you! You could have so much! And you waste it! You waste it all on that sick fuck who doesn’t know what he has! You tell me he was going to change, you tell me he says he realizes what a great thing he has, and then he goes and does this to you tonight!” Now, he was more crying his words than screaming. “You keep giving him all of yourself, all of your heart, and that’s an incredible thing to give... and he...”
She simply sat there, stunned into silence as he broke off, unable to find the words. He barely noticed the alternating expressions of disbelief, sadness, and anger that flickered across her face.
“...and he doesn’t appreciate it the way he should, the way that I... the way...” His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “The way I so want to appreciate it.”
A long silence followed this revelation. Neither of them knew quite what to say—neither knew quite what sentiment they would even want to articulate.
“And you know what the worst part of it is?” he asked. She met his gaze, awaiting his next words. “I always know I have to sell a service plan.”
“You sell a promise—and nobody enjoys selling something that should be given.”
He didn’t respond. He knew he’d agree with her when he calmed down, but for now he was merely annoyed by the pedantic psychobabble. “I guess this will make for a great story,” he admitted. Without any inclination on the status of where their friendship now stood, he turned to enter the house, and walked away without looking or thinking back.
![[off-site link]](_assets/off_site_white.gif){kind=small}
