I’m having an out of body experience. Though, it’s nothing like how people describe. I haven’t floated out of my body up to the ceiling. I’m not looking down at myself helplessly, watching events unfold. I guess I would describe it as a cross between an out of body experience and the angel/devil on my shoulder.
Except there’s no fucking angel.
It’s like I’m sitting right beside myself, laughing at myself, and thinking about spilling the drink in front of me for shits and giggles.
Natasha sits across the table from me and myself, the only real thing in focus in the restaurant. The people and sounds have all faded, gone blurry, as she breaks up with me. Because she thinks we’re in a relationship. But I don’t have the heart to tell her—to paraphrase most rappers—that we be fuckin’ and that’s it. So maybe I don’t have a heart at all.
“I just don’t think we’re right for each other,” she explains. “I’m not sure we’re bringing each other the happiness we both deserve.”
Her words are about as kind as a breakup can get. She’s being generous on my part, and I think we both know it. But Natasha is sweet, probably too sweet to be with the likes of me. I don’t think there’s a mean bone in her body. And I certainly won’t make this worse by being a dick now.
“I understand,” I say, taking a drink of the lemon water in front of me. I didn’t order alcohol when we were seated. Natasha doesn’t like it when I drink, and I respect that. But now I wish I had.
“Maybe we’re just too different,” she adds.
“Probably,” I agree. “And you deserve a lot better.”
Her eyes begin to rim with saltwater, and I avert my attention. I don’t want to see that.
“Don’t be sad,” I say, reaching across the table to take her hand in mine. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”
I met Natasha at the tattoo shop about three months ago. Do I have a reputation for sleeping with clients? The answer, unfortunately, is yes. I don’t mean to. They just make it so easy. Okay, that’s a dick thing to say. Even for me. What I mean is, I fulfill a fantasy for them. And I don’t mind.
She pats the top of my hand and says goodbye, then briskly leaves the table.
I guess I’ll just sit here and eat by myself like some weirdo. Oh, and I’ll pick up the check too. Rude. But I probably deserved worse.
In the past three months, Natasha and I had been on maybe three dates, though I never called them that; she did. The rest of the time consisted of me going over to her place for movie nights late after work.
She was rebounding off some college sweetheart jock dude with skin more delicate than her own. And me? I was the grungy tattooed guy with a long beard and no problem fucking the memories of him out of her. I’m not sure there’s a single surface in her apartment we didn’t leave ass-prints on.
Oh well. On to the next.
I finish my meal and order a slice of strawberry cheesecake to go. I’ll eat it sometime around 2AM when I wake up with the sudden urge to have a snack. It happens more nights than not.
My phone buzzes in my pocket on the sidewalk outside the restaurant just before I turn toward my truck.
Hawk: You’re needed tomorrow.
Me: For what?
Hawk: Your favorite.
Huh? My favorite at work? On what’s usually my day off? I think on it for a moment before texting him back, my mind drawing a blank.
Me: Just tell me, fuckface.
Hawk: Bachelorette party.
Perfect timing. It’s just the sort of shenanigans I need after tonight. Hell, it’s the sort of troublemaking opportunity I need in my life once a week, but I’ll take what I can get.
I confirm the time I’ll be in and start up ol’ Loretta. Yeah, I’m that fucking guy. My rusty ass truck’s name is Loretta. I’ve had her for ten years, and she was someone else’s for ten years before that. She’s old and perfect, and serves as my first test for a woman. If they don’t like her, I can’t fuck with them.
I know what you’re thinking: typical guy with an old truck; doesn’t want love. And maybe you’re right. But I’ve got layers. Lots of them. And it’s going to take more than a flirty woman in a flowing floral skirt getting a hip tattoo to capture my attention. What can I say? I’m the monster they make of me.
The gravel driveway crunches under my tires as I pull in and cut the engine. Aside from the dog barking, all I hear is the chorus of cicadas at the tree line. I might work downtown in a busy area—with people bustling up and down the sidewalk at all hours of the day and night—but when I retreat home, all I want is the quiet crackling of the fire pit out back; the comforting reassurance my dog gives me when she lies at my feet.
“Hey, girl,” I say, pulling the key from my door and leaning down to greet her.
Vega puts her head in the palm of my hand as I ignore the emotion I feel about her aging. It seems like only yesterday she was a spritely puppy. Now, the first few gray hairs are beginning to show on her muzzle.
In the kitchen, I flip on the overhead light as I fish out a bone from the canister on the counter and toss it to my girl. Then I pull a beer from the fridge, twisting off the cap and flicking it into the trash on my way out to the back patio.
Vega follows at my side, her loyalty never waning, happy as pie with her treat. Dogs are easy. They want love, treats, and a little exercise. And it doesn’t matter how long you’re gone, they love you when you return. It’s women I have an issue with. So many emotions and thoughts and feelings.
I wasn’t raised like that. We didn’t hug or kiss in my house. There were no bedtime stories, no family dinners, and we sure as hell didn’t discuss our feelings. Honestly, I was lucky if I escaped the day without my father teaching me a man’s lesson—AKA using me as a punching bag.
So really, it’s not that I don’t want to find love, to find a woman to fill this little house with something more than silence. It’s more like I just don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of thing. What’ve I got to offer?
Nothing good, the other me laughs from my side. Nothing good at all.