Page 5 of Ruby
It won’t change anything so I toss my phone onto the table next to my cold coffee and curl up on the couch. She always finds a way to get what she wants. By whatever means necessary, regardless of fallout, emotional or otherwise.
I don’t want to think about it, so instead I take a valium, trying not to think about what my therapist would say about me taking it, and close my eyes. My lungs pull in one long breath after another as I will my drug of choice to calm the stampede of horses running in all different directions. Or the mental loops of all the stupid things I have said.
2
Ani
The sound of pounding on my door jars me out of a nap. I’m disoriented and I take a long moment to realize it’s probably Shane.
I open the door just as he tries to kick it again. I roll my eyes. His hands aren’t so full he couldn’t use the doorbell. Or called me.
I wonder how he got in the building.
It hurts my head to think after getting up so fast, so I head back to the couch and recline on it.
He’s looming over me a few moments later. There’s a bag in each hand. I assume one is takeout based on the aroma. The other looks like a selection of samples.
“Did you even bother to put on makeup? You’re a mess.”
I spent an hour on it this morning. Plenty, considering I stayed in, but clearly not long enough for his standards.
I give him the only reply that comment deserves. “Fuck off.”
He laughs. “Touchy today, I see.”
“Is that Chinese?”
“You didn’t say you wanted any,” he says in an annoyed tone.
I raise an eyebrow. Or try to, anyway.
“Did I need to?” I ask.
I check my phone, but don’t see any messages from him.
I’m supposed to share my feelings, she says.
Right.
“It would have been nice if you thought of me,” I point out.
Ugh… so passive. I try again.
“It was a selfish prick move, Shane,” I say instead.
And now it’s too strong. I only seem to have two modes lately. Passive or bitchy. When did all my other masks move out of my reach?
The Bitch is the better mask, though, so I let it stand.
He just shrugs it off, evidently already used to my moods and sharp tongue. I doubt he would even understand my point, anyway.
He plops down on the couch next to me and dumps out the cologne samples, multicolored bottles clattering on the glass of my table. I feign interest as he talks about each one.
Then I get up to grab some mineral water and eat small bites of cucumber at the kitchen bar.
He wolfs the takeout down, letting out intermittent large belches. I bet his agent would have a fit if she knew about his meal and portion choice.
It’s tempting to take a video, but I don’t. I hate that sort of thing. That isn’t the stepping stone to engagement I’ve ever wanted to take.
