A Little Fiction
Something fake I wrote.
She sat there at her desk with poor posture listening to the song over and over. It made her wonder about how all the best guys she has come across have all dated and loved and lost Psychos. Girls. Crazy Girls. She has learned from these men that the crazy seeps out later—like a pinhole leak. But why do they (the men) put up with it? Sex? Boredom? Entrapment?
She has never had the urge to scream at someone over the phone. Or be the brooding girl sitting in the corner at the party. She especially never wanted to be considered someone’s friend’s girlfriend. She wanted to be a fixture who just so happened to bear the title of girlfriend and make jokes people actually laughed at.
The first guy she ever came across that dated a “psychotic bitch” according to her tennis bracelet wearing mother, was her older brother. He fell for the oldest trick in the book: A tall leggy blonde with no stomach and a boring personality. She flirted with his friends in front of him, called him in the middle of the night upset that he forgot to tell her when he got home after work. She was the type of girl to dream that her boyfriend cheated, and exercise her feeling of betrayal in reality. In this particular instance (of delusion), she would likely withhold conversation and eye contact, reassuring her boyfriend with a lackluster “I’m fine.” Following the emotionless statement with a glance out the car window and then spit out “Why do you do that?!” in response to said boyfriend changing the radio station for the third time in a row—because all the stations were on commercial break.
Maybe women like her do this because in their subconscious they know how ill-behaved they are and it is just misdirected anger that should be aimed at themselves. Or maybe she is just crazy. Psychotic tendencies and all, she was a stunning girl, with those legs and blonde hair and double zero frame. She had the pedigree of grandparents with yachts, country club memberships, a mother with an Audi, and the childhood home with a pool house. Due to her looks, Eve’s brother stayed with her for two whole years. He got out just in time before golfing with her father and shaking hands eighteen holes later–getting permission for a proposal and settling a business deal.
The song started to play for the third time, Eve sat up straight and looked at the clock. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, except maybe a distraction from the words “my ex.” At this point the clock read 4:14 pm and presently Eve could say the words “my ex” and the subject in question would not be refuted. She had one, who is now some guy who knows where her sock drawer is, but it dawned on her nearing 4:15 pm that she also bore that title. It is the kind of thing that if you have it some one else has to have it too, it is contagious. She thought about when and how she would be called that. It would happen in anecdotal passing with a new friend when something reminds Eve’s ex of her. He won’t go through the trouble of introducing a new friend to an invisible person, but would declare her as “my ex” and continue on with the story of a trip or something vaguely interesting. Eve felt her self start slouching again at 4:16 pm and the song started over. She thought about pairs and fifty fifty splits—the half went separate ways. This train of thought always arrives in Eve’s brain when this song comes on, and sometimes its a bullet train and the thought process is blurry and forgotten easily. Other times it needs a new platform. The song keeps playing, the clock keeps ticking, and the letters E and X make Eve stop in her tracks long enough until something else comes along to make her snap out of it and pay attention to her posture.
