Statistics

Her hair burned the color of a passionate flame, yet shone like silver.

It tumbled down in soft cascades down to her middle back, accenting her curves, and silky smooth porcelain skin. Her lips were always the same dark, sensual pink, practically red, that curled upward near the corners in a perpetual flirty, snarky smile that I was pretty sure nobody, especially me, could resist. She always wore heels - it was her signature thing; that sway that she did when she walked, the way her hips rocked back and fourth, the stark clicks of her heels on the ground she walked on. Her hair would always curl around her face, then away again, the wind pushing it back stubbornly as she sauntered along in her commanding cadence; sexily slow.

Drawing up her perfectly painted toes, curling around the muscles of her long, thin, toned legs, the fabric of her dresses would always dance to her strides. She always looked so perfect and pristine, like a doll; but we both knew it was the exact opposite.

I was the one who was her plaything.

I knew it, too, but I still couldn’t help myself. Everyone would always tell me that she was wrong for me, that she just played me, she wasn’t real, that she would only hurt me. The only thing I could do was blatantly ignore them, in hopes that they would stop making my shame bubbling up to the surface again and again.

Its just that she was so bad, she made it good.

“Hey. Come over. Now.”

“Uh,” I stuttered, caught off guard by the ringing in the middle of the night that I nearly missed the call. I had been lying on my couch, covered in a blanket and dressed in sweats with old reruns of Friends playing on the tv, dozing in and out of sleep. I had somewhat planned on making this my bed for the night, but somehow, I imagined things were about to change.

“Like, now, now?” I asked, slowly prodding my muscles to sit upright.

“Well what else do you think I mean by now?” she said, so condescending, but so enticing. God, her voice was like honey.

“Oh, alright, I-I’ll be over in a second,” I said, leaping up, and I heard a dial tone. No goodbye, no anything, just demands.

I quite literally jumped over the couch in my haste to get to my room. I shoved my jeans on; my feet flying off the ground, I was so quick about it. I shoved on a new beater and a button-up from my closet, (my attempts to look nice,) smoothed out my white-blonde hair so it wasn’t sticking up all over the place, and crammed a pair of tennis shoes on my feet. I was out the door before I could even shut off the television.

It wasn’t even cold in the Windy City as I walked the couple blocks to her house in the dead of night. I only needed my thin jacket I grabbed on the way out to protect me from the nippy night air. My pace was fast, and my heels clicked against the sidewalk in my anticipation; I tried to hold it back. One more corner to round, and I’d be there.

As I made that sharp turn to the left, I was startled to find myself nearly knocked over.

“Oops, I’m so sorry!” a sweet voice exclaimed in the quiet night.

“Its okay,” I mumbled, looking up to see a couple, their fingers interlaced, dressed sharply, most likely returning from a night out.

“We really need to be more attentive about where we’re walking sometimes, I guess we got caught up in the conversation, sorry about that, man,” the male of the couple said, giving me a clap on the shoulder.

“Its alright,” I said, ending the brief exchange of words as they walked away. I glanced back at him, and I could see her hanging on his jacketed arm, giggling as he made a teasing remark to her. She gave him a slight nudge, and he responded with a quick kiss on the top of her head. The realization hit me with a smack, like running into a brick wall.

Why couldn’t I have a relationship like that?

Everyone I loved was right. I would never be able to take her to dinner, or dancing, or just talk to her, because I wasn’t anything to her. I would always be the one waiting for her calls, the one leaping up at her mere beckon, always the one wanting more; and I knew I would never get it.

I knew I had to tell her something.

Walking now with more purpose, I climbed the two flights of stairs to her apartment door, and knocked; a little more loudly than normal. I took in a deep, slow breath, trying to relax my muscles, but I could feel even my nerves themselves shaking. My pulse quickened, and I could hear my heart pounding louder and louder in my ears as the seconds ticked agonizingly by, and finally I heard the alleviating click, and her heartstopping voice.

“Wow, you took a lot longer than normal. Shut the door behind you.”

As soon as I saw that commanding stride as she walked to the bedroom, and her soft, silken hair, the way her overly large tee hung over her shoulders, clung ever so slightly to her curves, that velvety way she spoke, that ache that I always felt deep in my chest snuffed out any desire to defy her, and the way she handled me.

I scoffed at myself, closing my eyes.

“I’m pathetic,” I sighed defeated, and followed her calls into her bedroom.