somebody that I used to know // kire
Sept 8, 2014 0:01:26 GMT -5
Post by cici on Sept 8, 2014 0:01:26 GMT -5
saylor cizek
The moment the race ends, my eyes search the pool deck for Rolex Ghram. Naturally, I catch sight of him just as he enters the locker room, immediately overcome by disappointment. However, I refuse to be a coward and walk away without a word. I will not leave without an answer and an explanation. Suddenly angry, I rush to the women’s locker room, twisting open my lock in only a matter of seconds and throwing a sweatshirt over my head. Still dripping wet, I slip into a pair of athletic shorts before pulling my swim cap from my head, my soaked ponytail dropping wildly past my shoulders. I undo the ponytail elastic, ignoring the net of knots that seem to have my head trapped, and then I toss the cap, along with my goggles, into my bag and leave the locker room in all but a few rushed minutes.
I hurriedly plant myself just outside the men’s locker room, an enraged expression across my face as I mentally prepare for the moment Rolex walks out of that door. A million ideas of what to say run through my head: Who do you think you are? If you didn’t want to see me anymore, why not just say it to my face instead of hiding away from me like a coward? You said you wanted to be a gentleman, so I tried to let you be one. Instead, you went off and left me wondering what I did wrong and what was wrong with me. Itching for some sense of organization, and seeing that Rolex still has not exited the locker room yet, I figure I might as well script this speech before I choke and forget it. I pull out my notebook, flipping to the next clean page. However, my eyes land on the page before it, titled: “Reasons Rolex Left.” I can’t help but let my eyes wander down the page:
- I was too awkward during dinner.
- I screwed up when I tried to hold the door open for him.
- He got bored.
- He found someone else.
- He’s still in love with Emery and still traumatized by her death.
- He realized that I’m nothing like Emery.
- I’m not strong.
- I’m not interesting.
- I’m just a spoiled brat.
I force myself to stop reading, for the list only gets worse and more self-deprecating as it goes on. I grab my pen from the side pocket of my back, forcing back the tears that have crawled their way to the edges of my eyes. I quickly run my pen across the page, trying to scratch out the words, trying to drop the heavy burden I’d once put on my shoulders. It’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s my fault. With a shake of my head, I close my notebook, but when I look up, I’m not prepared for what I see. Taken aback, I open my mouth, trying to form words as Rolex Ghram exits the locker room. I need a script in my hands showing me what to say, or better yet, a translator that can take all of the mixed emotions in my head and form them into coherent words. Instead, the only awkward and misplaced words that manage to escape my mouth are “Uh…? Hi,” my several minutes of planning thrown completely to waste.
I want to scream at Rolex, but I can't bring myself to. I want him to know that he hurt me; yet, pain is just a side effect of weakness, and my own personal weakness is something I can't blame him for. I was a coward enough to let him leave, to never reach out; I let him hurt me, so I have no right to hurt him back.
I hurriedly plant myself just outside the men’s locker room, an enraged expression across my face as I mentally prepare for the moment Rolex walks out of that door. A million ideas of what to say run through my head: Who do you think you are? If you didn’t want to see me anymore, why not just say it to my face instead of hiding away from me like a coward? You said you wanted to be a gentleman, so I tried to let you be one. Instead, you went off and left me wondering what I did wrong and what was wrong with me. Itching for some sense of organization, and seeing that Rolex still has not exited the locker room yet, I figure I might as well script this speech before I choke and forget it. I pull out my notebook, flipping to the next clean page. However, my eyes land on the page before it, titled: “Reasons Rolex Left.” I can’t help but let my eyes wander down the page:
- I was too awkward during dinner.
- I screwed up when I tried to hold the door open for him.
- He got bored.
- He found someone else.
- He’s still in love with Emery and still traumatized by her death.
- He realized that I’m nothing like Emery.
- I’m not strong.
- I’m not interesting.
- I’m just a spoiled brat.
I force myself to stop reading, for the list only gets worse and more self-deprecating as it goes on. I grab my pen from the side pocket of my back, forcing back the tears that have crawled their way to the edges of my eyes. I quickly run my pen across the page, trying to scratch out the words, trying to drop the heavy burden I’d once put on my shoulders. It’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s my fault. With a shake of my head, I close my notebook, but when I look up, I’m not prepared for what I see. Taken aback, I open my mouth, trying to form words as Rolex Ghram exits the locker room. I need a script in my hands showing me what to say, or better yet, a translator that can take all of the mixed emotions in my head and form them into coherent words. Instead, the only awkward and misplaced words that manage to escape my mouth are “Uh…? Hi,” my several minutes of planning thrown completely to waste.
I want to scream at Rolex, but I can't bring myself to. I want him to know that he hurt me; yet, pain is just a side effect of weakness, and my own personal weakness is something I can't blame him for. I was a coward enough to let him leave, to never reach out; I let him hurt me, so I have no right to hurt him back.
