‹ Prequel: Lost Cause
Sequel: Dinner Date With a Rock Star ›
Hallelujah
Sweating Bullets
I managed to get myself back to normal (by normal, I mean trying to hate Matt again) by repeating 'BrianBrianBrianBrian' in my head until I could see him in my mind's eye. Then of course, I got all depressed for a moment, remembering how I left him last time... Because yes, I am a bitch. Haven't we established this by now?
Is it me, or is my habit of walking out on the people that make me love life getting redundant and entirely showing of my cowardice? No more walking out, I decided...
Unless the moment really calls for it. Then it'll be alright.
I shuddered internally at the thought of what else would have to fuck up bad enough to make me run back to New York like a scared puppy. The feel the wheels of the plane hitting the tarmac in a (less than gentle) landing brought me mostly out of my head and back to reality. But that just left room for the omnipresent mountain of dread to squash me like a bug.
A scared, panicky bug (with blonde hair).
The fatass next to me grabbed his briefcase (sausage fingers) and hurried off the plane as soon as the wheels stopped turning and we arrived at the gate, waddling like a penguin (in a dirt-coloured suit) down the aisle and away. Maybe my horrible, evil thoughts permeated his thick, thick skull.
I, on the other hand, wanted to take my time, smoothing the snarls out of my hair and fishing my rimless red Dior sunglasses out of my tote bag. Camouflage against the world. You see, I have this horrible habit of people-watching at the least appropriate times, so instead of trying to stop, I decided sunglasses were better.. and a more fashionable way around the problem.
I walked off the plane, catching glimpses of myself in the metal girders that held together the narrow detachable hallway I was hurrying through. Each step instilled more fear and regret. Through the gate I go, getting double takes from strangers, as though I'm some celebrity or model (but shorter and untalented).
So, by whom from the band (or Lyndsey) will I be attacked?
I kept looking through the crowd of harried-looking people, most in business suits or like walking Barbie and Ken dolls. I found myself wondering dimly what would happen if I managed to set one of the plastic people on fire.
Would they incinerate?
After a moment I gave up thinking and standing there like a moron, deciding to just get my baggage and go, relieved and ready to get the hell out of here. No tackles or 'superhappyface' to fake. But apparently I hadn't looked hard enough. Just as I'd passed one of those large, grey poles, I stopped dead in my tracks, unwilling to palmface myself in public. Though maybe getting a faceprint on on of those columns could be a nice contribution to the terminal.
Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me... Why?!
Yeah, it's Matt. Just the person I didn't want to see... ever again. Evereverever. I noticed him before he had the time to see a 5'5" blonde, sunglass-wearing, stranger, obviously dumbfounded with her jaw on the floor. So I get to stop and wish I could just inconspicuously backstep and run to my first class seat to go back to Bradley International. He turned his head and jumped in surprise. (Apparently I'm still a ninja to him.) I waved shyly at my ex-fiancee and said quietly,
"Hey..."
"Hey, Cady.." he mirrored. I watched him scratch the side of his neck (it's a nervous habit of his,) and sort of shrug. Then comes the much more awkward part we both knew was coming:
We both stepped forward slightly before faltering, stepping forward again, faltering a second time, before Matt bit the bullet by completing the distance and wrapped his arms around my waist. Of course, I grab on for dear life.
Gimme a break, I haven't had a hug from someone of the opposite sex in two months.
While my forehead's pressed gingerly against my fiancee's neck, I notice something.
He smells amazing. Something close to incredibly expensive imported cologne mixing with the normal yet perfect musky smell of his skin. BrianBrianBrianBrianBrianBri-
"How was New York?" I heard him ask, as well as feeling the vibrations of his deep voice in his chest. I pulled away to face him, putting my three hundred-dollar sunglasses gently on the top of my head.
"Uhm, good, I guess." It'd been fun being back with my best friend.. I just couldn't keep California out of my mind. Of course I can't tell him this, so just I shrugged and bit my lip before walking toward baggage claim, Matt following easily and matching my stride. I mean, really. He's a tall person, I'm almost midget-worthy.
Down a crowded escalator and across a moving sidewalk and we were at baggage claim. I found my bag almost instantly and pulled it out, again walking in a tense silence with Matt. I had my nifty rolling suitcase on my left side, Matt on my right. As we walked, our hands touched more than once.
"Sorry," we both apologized shortly and simultaneously. I swear to fucking god, if this could get any more awkward, I'd get a brain hemorrhage and die right in front of the automatic doors.
Pretty picture, yes? Oh! And then imagine a fat guy walking over me and leaving a four-inch indentation of his foot in my ass.
We walked through those damn doors and I pushed my sunglasses back down over my eyes, effectively dyeing everything around me a shade of orange-pink. The strong California sun hit me and I enjoyed every moment. You have no idea how much I missed being warm... and tan. I stopped short and just basked in the glory of light for a moment. Matt turned around, a few steps ahead of me and smiled, shaking his head at my oddness.
"You're still a character, I see." He mumbles. I caught up to him with a wry smile and punched him as hard as I could in the arm. Please initiate the mock-pain. I started walking again... which was stupid since I had no idea where the hell Matt's car was. He stepped easily in front of me again, I watched the muscles of his shoulders. I'd poke his (it's a tendency I picked up from my special friend Aria, who pokes everything. Everything.) shoulder, but I'd hurt myself.
Oops.
Lost in my blonde little head again.
Blame the hair bleach. That's what I do.
I followed Matt to his car and tossed my heavy suitcase (in a fit of incredible strength) into the trunk before closing it. He unlocked the door to the passenger's side and I slipped in, trying not to remember how many times I've had sex in the back seat of this same vehicle. Rug burn was worth it. AH! What am I saying?! BRIANBRIANBRIANBRIANBRI-
"You know, Brian's fucking ecstatic you're back. He wanted to come get you, but he's laying down guitar tracks at the studio. Ya see, we've just started recording our new album." I smile a bit to myself. So I get to watch the 'magic happen.'
"He hasn't shut up about you in four days," I couldn't help it; I giggled at that. Matt shook his head and smirked for the second time in two minutes, putting his authentic police-style Intimidator sunglasses over his intriguing eyes and starting up the car. It was boiling hot in there, I could feel a small band of sweat growing at my hairline and pressed the button to open the windows. He pulled out of the airport parking lot and onto the highway, the wind messing up my hair over-poweringly (though I'm pretending not to care) and pressing the 'play' button on the stereo. I smiled broadly when I heard what CD was playing. The Megadeth one I burned for him ages ago. Like, in the first week I'd gotten to know him, he'd said he didn't like Megadeth. I punched him and made a CD. Now he likes them.
Victory was mine.
Thankfully, music gets rid of the necessity to talk, so I can just imagine air-guitaring and how my next meeting with Brian will be.
Feeling paranoid
True enemy or false friend?
Anxiety's attacking me, and
My air is getting thin
I'm in trouble for the things I haven't got to yet.
I'm chomping at the bit and my
Palms are getting wet,
Sweating bullets...
Though Matt seemed to have other plans for our carride conversation, and refused to let them die.
He paused the track, to be met with an impatient squeak from me (AKA: music-obsessed four-year-old).
"God, relax Cady, I'll turn it back on in a second. Just one thing. How are you doing?"
Fucking hell. I hate that question. Why? Because he always makes me answer it truthfully. I can never say, "Fine" or "Good," I have to elaborate. Bastard.
"Uhhhhm.... decent, I guess," Wrong answer, I know. But it's fun to annoy him. It gets my mind off that back seat. He stole a glance at me from behind the dark lenses.
"Decent? Why not good, or happy?"
Good question...
"Try... emotionally drained, but pretty happy to be back where the sun comes out more than once a week... What about you, hotshot?"
"I'm fine," I didn't bother him to continue. You see, I'm a nice person sometimes. Instead, I reached out to the car stereo and unpaused the track. And so we sat there, bobbing our heads to insanity/music for the rest of the ride.
Needless to say, I was relieved.
Is it me, or is my habit of walking out on the people that make me love life getting redundant and entirely showing of my cowardice? No more walking out, I decided...
Unless the moment really calls for it. Then it'll be alright.
I shuddered internally at the thought of what else would have to fuck up bad enough to make me run back to New York like a scared puppy. The feel the wheels of the plane hitting the tarmac in a (less than gentle) landing brought me mostly out of my head and back to reality. But that just left room for the omnipresent mountain of dread to squash me like a bug.
A scared, panicky bug (with blonde hair).
The fatass next to me grabbed his briefcase (sausage fingers) and hurried off the plane as soon as the wheels stopped turning and we arrived at the gate, waddling like a penguin (in a dirt-coloured suit) down the aisle and away. Maybe my horrible, evil thoughts permeated his thick, thick skull.
I, on the other hand, wanted to take my time, smoothing the snarls out of my hair and fishing my rimless red Dior sunglasses out of my tote bag. Camouflage against the world. You see, I have this horrible habit of people-watching at the least appropriate times, so instead of trying to stop, I decided sunglasses were better.. and a more fashionable way around the problem.
I walked off the plane, catching glimpses of myself in the metal girders that held together the narrow detachable hallway I was hurrying through. Each step instilled more fear and regret. Through the gate I go, getting double takes from strangers, as though I'm some celebrity or model (but shorter and untalented).
So, by whom from the band (or Lyndsey) will I be attacked?
I kept looking through the crowd of harried-looking people, most in business suits or like walking Barbie and Ken dolls. I found myself wondering dimly what would happen if I managed to set one of the plastic people on fire.
Would they incinerate?
After a moment I gave up thinking and standing there like a moron, deciding to just get my baggage and go, relieved and ready to get the hell out of here. No tackles or 'superhappyface' to fake. But apparently I hadn't looked hard enough. Just as I'd passed one of those large, grey poles, I stopped dead in my tracks, unwilling to palmface myself in public. Though maybe getting a faceprint on on of those columns could be a nice contribution to the terminal.
Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me... Why?!
Yeah, it's Matt. Just the person I didn't want to see... ever again. Evereverever. I noticed him before he had the time to see a 5'5" blonde, sunglass-wearing, stranger, obviously dumbfounded with her jaw on the floor. So I get to stop and wish I could just inconspicuously backstep and run to my first class seat to go back to Bradley International. He turned his head and jumped in surprise. (Apparently I'm still a ninja to him.) I waved shyly at my ex-fiancee and said quietly,
"Hey..."
"Hey, Cady.." he mirrored. I watched him scratch the side of his neck (it's a nervous habit of his,) and sort of shrug. Then comes the much more awkward part we both knew was coming:
We both stepped forward slightly before faltering, stepping forward again, faltering a second time, before Matt bit the bullet by completing the distance and wrapped his arms around my waist. Of course, I grab on for dear life.
Gimme a break, I haven't had a hug from someone of the opposite sex in two months.
While my forehead's pressed gingerly against my fiancee's neck, I notice something.
He smells amazing. Something close to incredibly expensive imported cologne mixing with the normal yet perfect musky smell of his skin. BrianBrianBrianBrianBrianBri-
"How was New York?" I heard him ask, as well as feeling the vibrations of his deep voice in his chest. I pulled away to face him, putting my three hundred-dollar sunglasses gently on the top of my head.
"Uhm, good, I guess." It'd been fun being back with my best friend.. I just couldn't keep California out of my mind. Of course I can't tell him this, so just I shrugged and bit my lip before walking toward baggage claim, Matt following easily and matching my stride. I mean, really. He's a tall person, I'm almost midget-worthy.
Down a crowded escalator and across a moving sidewalk and we were at baggage claim. I found my bag almost instantly and pulled it out, again walking in a tense silence with Matt. I had my nifty rolling suitcase on my left side, Matt on my right. As we walked, our hands touched more than once.
"Sorry," we both apologized shortly and simultaneously. I swear to fucking god, if this could get any more awkward, I'd get a brain hemorrhage and die right in front of the automatic doors.
Pretty picture, yes? Oh! And then imagine a fat guy walking over me and leaving a four-inch indentation of his foot in my ass.
We walked through those damn doors and I pushed my sunglasses back down over my eyes, effectively dyeing everything around me a shade of orange-pink. The strong California sun hit me and I enjoyed every moment. You have no idea how much I missed being warm... and tan. I stopped short and just basked in the glory of light for a moment. Matt turned around, a few steps ahead of me and smiled, shaking his head at my oddness.
"You're still a character, I see." He mumbles. I caught up to him with a wry smile and punched him as hard as I could in the arm. Please initiate the mock-pain. I started walking again... which was stupid since I had no idea where the hell Matt's car was. He stepped easily in front of me again, I watched the muscles of his shoulders. I'd poke his (it's a tendency I picked up from my special friend Aria, who pokes everything. Everything.) shoulder, but I'd hurt myself.
Oops.
Lost in my blonde little head again.
Blame the hair bleach. That's what I do.
I followed Matt to his car and tossed my heavy suitcase (in a fit of incredible strength) into the trunk before closing it. He unlocked the door to the passenger's side and I slipped in, trying not to remember how many times I've had sex in the back seat of this same vehicle. Rug burn was worth it. AH! What am I saying?! BRIANBRIANBRIANBRIANBRI-
"You know, Brian's fucking ecstatic you're back. He wanted to come get you, but he's laying down guitar tracks at the studio. Ya see, we've just started recording our new album." I smile a bit to myself. So I get to watch the 'magic happen.'
"He hasn't shut up about you in four days," I couldn't help it; I giggled at that. Matt shook his head and smirked for the second time in two minutes, putting his authentic police-style Intimidator sunglasses over his intriguing eyes and starting up the car. It was boiling hot in there, I could feel a small band of sweat growing at my hairline and pressed the button to open the windows. He pulled out of the airport parking lot and onto the highway, the wind messing up my hair over-poweringly (though I'm pretending not to care) and pressing the 'play' button on the stereo. I smiled broadly when I heard what CD was playing. The Megadeth one I burned for him ages ago. Like, in the first week I'd gotten to know him, he'd said he didn't like Megadeth. I punched him and made a CD. Now he likes them.
Victory was mine.
Thankfully, music gets rid of the necessity to talk, so I can just imagine air-guitaring and how my next meeting with Brian will be.
Feeling paranoid
True enemy or false friend?
Anxiety's attacking me, and
My air is getting thin
I'm in trouble for the things I haven't got to yet.
I'm chomping at the bit and my
Palms are getting wet,
Sweating bullets...
Though Matt seemed to have other plans for our carride conversation, and refused to let them die.
He paused the track, to be met with an impatient squeak from me (AKA: music-obsessed four-year-old).
"God, relax Cady, I'll turn it back on in a second. Just one thing. How are you doing?"
Fucking hell. I hate that question. Why? Because he always makes me answer it truthfully. I can never say, "Fine" or "Good," I have to elaborate. Bastard.
"Uhhhhm.... decent, I guess," Wrong answer, I know. But it's fun to annoy him. It gets my mind off that back seat. He stole a glance at me from behind the dark lenses.
"Decent? Why not good, or happy?"
Good question...
"Try... emotionally drained, but pretty happy to be back where the sun comes out more than once a week... What about you, hotshot?"
"I'm fine," I didn't bother him to continue. You see, I'm a nice person sometimes. Instead, I reached out to the car stereo and unpaused the track. And so we sat there, bobbing our heads to insanity/music for the rest of the ride.
Needless to say, I was relieved.