There cums the neighbourhood.
The other night me and the girlfriend were reliving shared but separate childhood memories by re-watching The Neverending Story. It was a spur of the moment type thing, so we got started rather late. As we were approaching the half-way mark we found ourselves getting the mid-night giggles. That stage of tiredness when everything seems rather funny. We were chatting in hushed and clipped tones and having a laugh at how poorly some of the elements in the movie had aged.
During this most pleasant of times we get interrupted by a loud banging on the wall followed by an equally loud yet muffled voice.
- "I'm actually trying to sleep!"
Or something to that effect came pouring through the wall we share with this apparently grumpy denizen. Most rude. That I had been forced to overhear said person have loud and obnoxious mid-day sex just a few days prior is of no concern. Apparently. Clamorous Afternoon Boinking - Perfectly acceptable. Average Nightly Conversation - Horrendous.
We weren't having a rip-roaring booming time, with rowdy cheers and boisterous applauds. The volume was in every respect, reasonable. A bit too reasonable even. Had it sounded like twenty-odd burly men performing heavy construction in the middle of an ongoing party as a gaggle of geese were set ablaze for the party crowd's amusement I should think my keen and sharp neighbour would have hesitated before bothering me with information on his sleeping habits. The silly git.
The addition of the word "actually" in his improvised and analog cross-domicile radio theatre opens up a whole other level of possible interpretation. Did he actually expect us to know that his and our headboards were adjacent? What then must be his point with such rambunctious three o'clock sex? I dare not speculate any further into such perverted goings-on that must be...going on.
I quite often over-complicate things. He's probably just a self-centered asshole. Which is an interesting idea, in and off itself.
The gash was getting a whole lot worse.
I was happy for her. Truly. But up to a point. My happiness, for her happiness, only went so far. I always suspected she would be better of with some other man than with me. Not necessarily this new one of course. At the same time I would gladly trade away a piece of her well-being for some more of my own. If it meant I'd have her by my side. Selfish, I know. What can I tell ya?
Other women did not interest me as much. Nothing they ever did or said could make me as happy as her. Nor as sad. Obsession? Maybe. Piteous? Definitely. In the long run having people around me not fully knowing of my fixation made me feel somewhat more comfortable. It was as if I was some sort of spy leading a double life. Alright, it was never as exciting as that. I won't give you that impression. There were no secret meetings on the rooftops of Paris, exchanging microfilm for political prisoners. Maybe I was more like a cheating husband. Ironically "the other women" being my wife, her being my mistress. In my mind's eye.
Damnit this band-aid itches!
Then came Paige. The first someone who bothered. Tried to try. Her kindness offsetting her inability to understand me. That said; Paige has an uncanny ability to sense what parts of my personality are vulnerable and need mending. Had she been of crueler intent she could have pushed my buttons to the brink of meltdown. Destroying me with the littlest of ease. Maybe that's what I needed. A nuclear wind sweeping in. Rolling back all of the superfluous nonsense built up by society and myself. Is that what she was? My radioactive darling?
Let's not get ahead of ourselves. As pleasant as our times together are I can sometimes sense that very certain uncertainty bubbling inside of me. No, it isn't just gas. It's bile (originating not from the liver but from years of rejection) that has fermented. And every once in a while it surfaces in the form of suspicion and fear. Was she really into me? Why would she be? Is she only playing with me? I never say such things directly, naturally. I hope I don't fuck this up.
A little hate comes bleeding through.