Wrong Side Of Paradise

Thursday, 5 December 2013

Charmer Karma

*bad language.
*bad morals.

This is a blog...I'm going to blog now.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I’m seldom awoken by the birds singing at my window, and today was no different. As the blood curdling yelp of an urban fox echoed through my half covered ears, I grudgingly opened my eyes. Feeling no more rested than I deserved, I stumbled out of bed and fought to get free from my tangled sheets like a drunken ninja taking on an invisible opponent.

I showered, shaved and arranged my hair in a deliberate disarray, deciding I looked semi acceptable (Ha "semi").

I headed out to the same familiar noises, smells and glances that I have become accustom to.  And upon arriving at the station to catch the morning train, I was notified of a lengthy delay. I laughed to myself as those around me cursed the universe for its unpredictability.

When I finally arrived at where it was, I was supposed to be. I took my time counting manhole covers as I walked. I grabbed at my pocket to feel for the half empty pack of cigarettes I had stashed next to my chest like a cardboard pacemaker. Deciding that I would soon need more, I stepped into a dimly lit and overly crowded inconvenience store.

I made my way to the counter, brushing against my fellow inhabitants of earth as they angled themselves into an uncomfortable formation to let me pass. At the counter a girl stood, the same girl I make a habit of visiting whenever I’m around.

I reach for a highly advertised energy drink that’s bordering on legal high, just as the girl moves to reach for the cigarettes she already knows I’m going to ask for. I look at her, she’s one of those girls that either wears no makeup, or spends a lot of money on makeup that makes her look like she isn't wearing any makeup.

Her long, dark wavy hair hangs on one of her shoulders and her large green/blue marble eyes look back at my narrow brown ones. To call her beautiful would be inaccurate...Ethereal? Maybe.

I stare at her for a moment too long, no doubt making her uncomfortable. I imagine that she lives in a small apartment above the shop where she sews her own clothes whilst listening to jazz on an old record player, and in the evenings she sits by her window with a glass of wine, reading some old overlooked book pausing to watch strangers in the night.

Idea for novel, boy meets girl, boy writes girl into his idea of perfection, girl springs into existence. ‘’Wait? Didn't someone already do that with Ruby Sparks?’’

‘’Nine pounds twenty two’’ a soft voice with an almost undetectable hint of a French accent shocks me back to reality. I pay up and begrudgingly make my way out.

My Purpose today is to meet with Belinda, a girl I once dated almost a year ago. My relationship with Belinda was kind of a big deal (for me at least), I haven’t had many long term"girlfriends" as most of my relationships tend to fizzle out after a few days when I inevitably get bored of questions I don’t want to answer, or ‘’she’’ has enough of my vague attempts at communication.

But against all odds I dated Belinda on and off for quite a while, how long exactly I can’t remember. She was sweet, smart and funny, but also annoying and...annoying. Anywho, after a long time not hearing from her, I recently received a lengthy email detailing Bell's travels, adventures, career and asking to meet up as it would be a good idea for us to be ‘’friends’’.

Hence my purposeful trip today.

I walked towards the coffee shop I would be meeting Bell at and paused on the opposite side of the street leaning against a cold, thrice painted metal gate. I surveyed the area and spotted her sitting on a chair outside of the coffee shop fiddling with her jacket sleeves impatiently.

It pains me to admit it, but she looked hot. Her purposefully torn indie band T-shirt had a pair of unnecessary sunglasses hooked onto its collar, and the collection of quirky bracelets she wore on one wrist looked like a wreath of candy.

I stared at her, and was struck by several memories. Her goofy laugh, the feel of her always warm hands and then...her never ending questions, her poorly disguised judgments, her forced laugh around her plastic friends. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

And it struck me, did she call me here in some childish attempt to show me what I was missing?

It was possible.

I sighed as she finally made me and looked over. My heart sank, and I realised I had two choices.

One, I could go over, lap up her stories, nod and smile at the right moments and pretend...Pretend as I've become so good at.

Two, I could go over. Grunt and shake my head at the right moments, and try to be polite...Polite as I can be.

I did neither.

Instead I flipped her off from across the street. My middle finger held up triumphantly as strangers curved and passed me by.

Bell looked confused, staring at my finger that signaled "fuck you".

Then she looked at my eyes...My eyes said "spin on it".

I lit a cigarette and walked off, thinking how cool it would be if the sun would cast a lonely shadow as I walked into the distance. But it didn't, it began to rain, and then it poured soaking me like some sort of message from the skies telling me how much of a jackass I was.

Relationships? Who needs them?

Not me.

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