The Man, part 3.

Shitty coffee, at a shitty café. He couldn't quite figure out why she insisted on coming here. There were plenty of good, or at least half-way decent, places in the same neighborhood. Ones that didn't smell like day-old coffee and mold and grime. Sure she had a thing for the guy who worked here, but was that really an excuse? The stuff they served was just rancid. Brown weird tasting liquid. Coffee in name only. As he stared down into his cup at the old curdled cream that had gathered up like an alien cocoon at the bottom he caught himself day dreaming. Mostly of nonsense. Bunnies fighting each other with Uzis, women he knew and fantasized about regularly, having an apartment that wasn't a joke. The regular stuff. But somewhere in there, at the back of his head and mind he also held a thought of her. An idea. In an idealized form. The one he remembered from when they were kids. The one he had modeled every other encounter and impression of women after. The archetype that was faulty, wrong and nonsense. Other people had their mother to blame, he had her. None the less she had at least thought of him and taken the time to call. Things were going better. As they sat there the same old conversation they had had a thousand times by now unfolded with tedious inevitability. She lamented some man. He supported and complimented her. Listening to the details and making suggestions along the way. Then it was his turn to discuss some part of his private life, at this point she usually switched off and started drifting in and out of the conversation. Commenting instead on how unfulfilled she felt, her needs and ultimately her desires. - I'd just like a really good fuck right now. She blurted out. - Well that's not exactly hard to find...when you're a reasonably attractive woman... He shot back as soon as he heard it, with an annoyed urgency creeping in to back it up. - Whad'ya mean? Like I can go out and have sex at any time? As she finished the sentence she uttered a loud "Pfft" so hard she almost shot saliva all away across the table. - Of course you could. Walk into any bar, club or grocery store and you can find a dozen non-deformed young fellows, primed and ready to go. Minimum effort required. I however have to scope the situation, put in a lot of effort and at best have a slim chance at the end of the night. He punctuated his phrases with intense hand movements, it seemed as if he was doing a performance. In a way he was, he had mulled over this idea in his head many a time. Considered the exact wording and intonation. This was The Idea's grand gala opening into the real world. And it was going great. - I guess you're right... I'm gonna go ask him. She pushed her chair back with a loud scraping sound. The worst kind. The sound of dry wood against a stone floor. All he could do was sit there and watch her walk over and talk to this guy, another anonymous guy. Had he been anywhere with her where she had not met some guy? The sounds from the street outside and the few other customers drowned out what they were saying. Things were not going well.

The Man, part 2.

I got the call just as I was leaving work. I almost snapped off the band-aid from my finger while scrambling to get the phone out of my pocket. What the hell does she want now? Isn't it enough that she rejected me? Is this some sort of sick game to her? I know alot of things, the only problem is that most of it's wrong. One thing I am certain of however is that I love her. Or loved her, whichever makes me less pathetic. For the longest time she seemed like she was deciding. What she wanted from life, what she wanted from me. In reality though she had probably figured out exactly what she needed me for quite some time ago. Some sort of male companionship. When other men treated her like shit she needed me to come in and reassure her. Tell her she didn't deserve what she got. Keep her company. Maybe watch a movie and eat dinner together, in our little apartments. Knowing full well that I wanted her. On second thought it was entirely possible she couldn't quite understand just how much this feeling had taken over my life. No, no she had to know. Not fully, but surely an inkling had to appear somewhere in that head of hers. We were more than friends. "Just friends" as she put it. The phrase that can make any grown man feel like he's back in school, having just been humiliated in front of the class. "This is my heart, please don't dump it on the floor." I really need to get back home first and have a shower and change this band-aid. It's starting to itch, a whole lot. If this thing gets infected I swear to God I'm going to go berserk! I'm not going to lose a finger over a bet. How the hell was I to know that Indian would be so good at the knife game? Proving once again that whisky and sharp objects don't mix. The band-aid is getting frayed around the edges and discoloured. If only it was a Flintstones one like when you were a kid. That would be cute, that would be a way in when you're picking up women. What the hell am I thinking? "Hey baby, wanna see my disfigured finger?" Sexy, real sexy. Who was it that had fucked her and left this time? Some dashingly handsome actor? A mysterious musician? A successful banker? It didn't matter. They were all the same underneath. The same insecure, preening, posturing bullshit artists that equally insecure women fall for. I knew most of these guys through friends of friends and acquaintances. Walking human echoes, one and all. What a whiny little bitch I had become. At times that little piece of plastic cloth felt like it was the only thing holding me together.

The Man, part 1.

On the bus. He could feel every contour of his face, every edge and protrusion. The skin was pulled more tightly over the bone and cartilage than usual. It often did that just after he had showered. The skin probably dried up somewhat. But who had time for lotions and ointments, really? It was more than enough work to brush each day. Flossing only occurred sporadically. When he remembered to remember. Not often enough according to his dentist. Screw that guy though, he had arm-hair covering his wrist watch. He may know about dental hygiene but who takes advice from a guy like that? And those kids in the framed pictures, let's just hope they're talented or something. He had gotten off the bus now, waiting for the next one. In that little glassy hut-like structure they call a bus stop. Smoking the first cigarette of the day as he stood there. Mulling over what he had heard about the nicotine in the cigarettes turning your fingers yellow he concluded;

"This is what yellow tastes like."

Do colours have tastes? If they did, yellow would no doubt taste like a morning cigarette in the rain. Did the cigarettes actually taste different while smoked on an early, rainy day? Or was it all in his head? In either case it was all real to him. That's what mattered, right now. Until he got to see her again. Finallly.