It’s not just the deaf thing. Maybe it’s the ink that crawls up my neck from a mass of swirls and thorns that starts at my right shoulder and spreads out like a black, deadly explosion. Maybe it’s the fuck-you look I always seem to be giving. People think I’m dangerous. The less they have to deal with me, the better. I know if my roommates were here, the waitress would talk to me through them as if I was some strange entity from another planet they needed to order for. Hell, one time at an Italian place, I went through a whole damn meal without getting a single refill, check-up, or an offer for dessert. The waiter couldn’t wait to slap a check on my table and get me the fuck out; that’s how uncomfortable I make people.
Oh, and I fucking love dessert. Bastard.
My mind is a mess and the six drinks I downed at the Throng & Song are already gone, my buzz killed long ago. Even the eggs don’t cheer me up. They’re brought to the table by a different person, some server who meets my eyes worriedly as if I were a caged beast he was feeding. I’m guessing big-tits is over me. I cut into my eggs with a scowl and watch the yolk bleed across my plate.
There’s something refreshingly different about that girl from the theater … annoyingly different. It unsettles me. Everyone down here is the same. All the girls have fear in their eyes when they meet me.
She had something else. Curiosity? Confidence? It’s like her eyes cut through all the bullshit and the smoke and the walls of cynicism I built up around myself. She saw me.
Or I’m just lying to myself all over again, just like I lied to myself with countless girls before.
It’s exactly forty minutes later when I’m slipping my key into the door. The second the cold air of my apartment touches my skin, I feel relief, kicking the door shut behind me and dropping my bag onto the kitchen counter where last night’s army of beer cans and pizza boxes still sit. The living room’s unoccupied and Brant’s door is shut, so I assume he sealed his lady-deal. With a huff at the abundant laziness of my two helpless roommates, I surrender to half an hour of housekeeping before I allow myself to chill.
Or maybe I just want to take my aggression out on these dishes and cups and cutlery. It infuriates me that I can’t get that girl out of my mind, which shows in the way I scrub the glass in my hand. The water seeps into my sleeves the way she seeps into my every thought. Her singing captivated a room full of drunk morons. Who the hell manages to do that? I could physically feel the noise of the room die away when she took to that microphone. The frenzied hum of the place, a hum I could feel through every fingertip and follicle of hair on my body, it grew still, just so she could make her music.
That vacuum of sensation was fast replaced by a beauty I was all too eager to drink in with my eyes. I don’t think I knew eyes were capable of drinking until that moment.
Thoughts of her bring me to the couch where I collapse and kick my sore feet up, my eyelids growing heavier by the second. I mash a throw pillow behind my head and let sleep have her way with me, assuming she wants me at all. I’ve had trouble sleeping lately. That same stupid nightmare keeps creeping into my dreams, the one where I wake up in a house filled with water. My bed’s floating, my roommates are gone, and no one’s there to help me. Since I’ve had the nightmare so many times, I always know none of the doors will open no matter how hard I push, and somehow, I can’t smash the window. Because I already know I can’t get free, I’m more terrified each time I have the nightmare. The room keeps filling up, and for a moment, I always think I see someone outside. I scream for them, begging for help, pounding my fist against the glass, and for once, it’s the rest of the world who can’t seem to hear a thing. No one comes to save my life.
I hate feeling helpless.
But that’s not the dream that finds me on the couch tonight. Instead, it’s her on that tiny stage all by herself, and the entire room at the Throng has emptied itself of all those others who don’t matter. It’s just her on the stage, and me in front of her.
And all that cold, silent space between us.
I study her. Like a zoomed-in camera, my eyes draw up the length of her smooth legs, over her supple hips, and arriving at her perky, perfect breasts.
My cock’s so hard, a moan vibrates my chest.
My eyes arrive at her lips, and suddenly I’m at the edge of the stage looking up at her. The whole room feels ice cold against my skin. Her breath is the only warmth I know, and it touches me in little jagged spurts and I haven’t even touched her yet. She wants me so bad. She wants me to do things to her. “Clayton,” I can imagine her saying.