Existing Obsolete

“He doesn’t even know I exist,” was my running thought every time I saw him. Every time I looked at him taking orders, standing confidently erect and flaunting every ounce of his physical beauty. This was never an intentional demonstration for he wasn’t vain despite having every reason to be; he was tall; his hair dirty blonde, wavy and soft, an imagined softness aromatized with his body's pheromones.

Then there were his other physical traits, unappealing to his many admirers but to me they were added aesthetic; his crooked tooth that contrasted his otherwise perfect orality; his wide nose with a nearly microscopic middle bump, likely the product of high school basketball or a genetic trait from his Irish lineage; his tallness, uncomfortable for our co-workers ranging between 5’5-5’9 compared to his 6’3; at 5'6, I liked a man to look up to. Then there was his voice, the antithesis to his boyish and soft face; it delivered a gruffness that made Beverly Hills housewives and WEHO socialites rethink waving for their third Diet Coke. I wasn't immune to this effect, but not because I feared his gargantuan physique or dominating voice: I quivered at his gargantuan spirit.

He was outgoing, confident in his nature from talking sports, reenacting his auditions, to placing an order with the back of house, which barely understood his English requests but nonetheless smiled by his moving lips. Everyone wanted him to say something their way; I wanted this more than anything in the world; every shared shift to every time I headed towards the employee exit when my shift ended an hour before his. Though our interactions were simple requests involving striking dirty tables, refilling drinks, or imagined scenarios on my behalf, there were those brief moments when he would turn to me, smiling and gift me a “Goodbye! Have a good day! Thanks for everything, Jude.”

While minimal in context, his acknowledgment, his uttering of my name enriched my existence and postponed, even if just for one afternoon, that “He doesn’t even know I exist.”

It was hard to imagine a life without seeing Harry, but I had to assimilate myself into the idea, especially if I was to escape. Escape her.

“Do the dishes," she barked at me while I sat typing away on my 2009 Macbook.

"Hello, anyone home? she reiterated her last request as I continued typing furiously. I was determined to ignore her.

“Do the dishes.," she barked again as I continued looking onward.

“Later," I finally opened my mouth, tired of reminding her that I had homework; reminding her that I had reading to do; reminding her that none of the dirty dishes were my doing aside from my Yoda coffee mug I had next to me most nights.


“Do the dishes—now! I’m not going to ask you again,” she howled then proceeded to slam down my MacBook screen before I had a chance to save anything. I was determined. I lifted the screen back up and got back to typing.


“Jude!”
she roared my name, vandalizing my ear drums.

“Mom! I have to finish--," I said, determined to maintain mental equilibrium for my writing.


“Don’t yell at me!”
 she persisted. Her irritation was customary when my success was involved.

“I’m not yelling! You are! If you need a cup, why don’t you—" I said in a final attempt to dissuade her from war; instead, I fired the first shot. She slammed down the screen even harder than the first time and pulled me by my right ear towards the sink.
“Stop it!”
 I reluctantly pleaded; I loathed her the most when she made me plea. Her grip only got tighter, digging her cheap, tacky, blue acrylic nails into my ear lobe’s skin. She turned on the faucet and then grabbed a sponge and forced it onto my hand. 
“Go!”


“Can you let go of me, please," I pleaded again for the sake of my burning lobe. She didn’t for another five seconds, then she did and stood there, determined to prove her point and determined for me to never impose my logic onto her imposition as head of household—pfft! I started washing, not out of fear for me but fearful for my computer screen slamming a third and final time. I couldn’t afford a new laptop; it had taken four paychecks from Casa Bonita to buy that one. 
She stood there for a whole two minutes while I washed her favorite angel mug, two tuna casserole encrusted plates she’d been eating lunch on that week, and the plastic, chocolate pudding-coated McDonald's fork which was a week overdue to go in the trash.

She finally walked away to continue texting George.
 George. Her George. Her own Harry, except my Harry was the sunniest day in existence through his immaculate face, swimmer’s build, to the sound of his operatic voice; her George was an apocalyptic night marking humanity’s end in the darkest, excruciating way involving skin-peeling and burning off one’s body, especially every time his raspy, Miller Lite-stricken voice infiltrated my ear drums during his nocturnal visits. But he was her George.



I locked myself in my room for the rest of that night, just like every night he visited. I got to reading “The Virgin Suicides,” a required and personally foreign read for English; a required distraction from the sounds coming from my mom’s room. I flipped through the pages, hoping to finish it before class the following morning. I couldn’t fathom anymore alone time with the piece or its protagonists--Cecilia, Lux, Bonnie, Mary, and Therese—entitled, destructive, and dismissive of their loving parents; parents who wanted them and tried everything humanly possible to keep them alive. Their warped sense of first world problems made me want to walk out of my room and throw the paperback at my mom’s door to shush them down. But similar to the plight of those five sisters, shushing her was momentarily delaying the continuation of her noisy existence.

As much as my heart and every other part of my seventeen-year-old anatomy thrived for Harry, I wasn’t blind to the others. The others that frequented Casa Bonita; the West Hollywood breeds unleashed into the world unapologetically; from muscular, suited men; muscular, shorts and tank-top or v-neck wearing men; to those too stout or average shaped due to Happy Hour Margaritas paired with unlimited chips and salsa from the bar; they were my first taste at gay life by a mere vicarious scope and had my undivided whenever Harry wasn’t
 scheduled to work.


“Would you be able to grab us another round of Margaritas before Happy Hour ends?” asked the dehydrated gentleman responsible for directing my gaze towards his friend: Harry's substitute. He was a wavy-haired brunette with green eyes hiding behind glasses; he had a round nose and defined cheekbones that made me want to put down my bussing tray to touch them; I could have continued standing next to table 8 looking at him for the remainder of my shift had the dehydrated gentleman not been threatening to snap someone--the closest Casa Bonita employee--if his thirst wasn't quenched; unfortunately for him, I was only willing to quench one of his dehydrated states.

“Paul, table 8 needs another round before Happy Hour ends," I said to Paul, the curly, salt-and-pepper-haired server that was seasoned at running Margaritas for almost three decades. He was not having it—as in, he physically wasn’t having any more drinks go on his full tray of Margarita pitchers, Micheladas, Queso dip and other appetizers.


“Can you run it. I have to get to that big party in the C-room," Paul asked me as he started making his way back into the dining room.


“Um...” I said, uncertain of my drink handling skills as I could barely support the weight of my bussing tray on most shifts.

"Mando, can you make three Margaritas, two on the rocks and one blended for table 8, please? You got this,” Paul placed the order with the bartender, placing too much confidence in me considering the number of times he had helped me balance my bussing tray.

“Thanks,” said the dehydrated gentlemen as his shaky right
hand quickly snatched his drink from the tray, almost causing me to lose my grip entirely; he would have probably rejoiced in having sugary Tequila dress his body. Harry's substitute followed; he didn’t touch his drink; his life
 didn’t depend on it like the dehydrated gentleman; his cold look seemed frozen in time as he looked at me with those green eyes that while detained behind his glasses, persecuted me ferociously.

I walked back to table 8 a few more times to refill their waters and to strike their accumulating empty dishes; whether at his table, table 9, or when heading back to the bussing station, his looking didn’t warm up, his green eyes becoming colder yet brighter as the remaining rays of sunshine shun on them.


"Can you drop off table 7 and 8 checks,” Paul asked while already handing me the checks. I made my way over to table 7 first, delaying for a few seconds longer communicating with any of the three men sitting adjacent to it.


“Do you know where our server went?” asked the dehydrated gentleman, his thirst half-met by that point; he intended to quench it entirely as his shaky touch started on my waist and made its way down my pelvic bone.

“Here’s your check,” I said, managing to open my mouth in the name of self-preservation. His eyes continued where his hand stopped as they salivated me from head to below my belt buckle.
“I’ll let him know you want to order—We don’t. Give him this,” he interrupted me, handing over the checkbook with his credit card slipped in while he fixed his eyes once again below my belt buckle. After ten seconds of Goosebumps hindering my pace, I escaped back to the POS station.


“I’m apologizing in advance for Table 8. The guy’s kind of needy and... wishes he would have seen more of you during the meal...” I said as I handed Paul the sticky checkbook, informing him of his potentially sticky situation.


“Is he fuc—I was going back and forth between him, table 7, and the C-Room...son of a—" Paul mumbled to himself as he finished closing-out a check. 
“Since he seems to like talking to you so much—-here, you take him his receipt.”


It was like Paul enjoyed seeing me Neemo my way through that shark tank that was table 8.


“Thank you for joining us,” I said, placing the checkbook back on table 8 and starting escaping back to the POS station as the thirstiest of the duo sharks looked at me, ready to get a final, flesh-ripping bite before saying goodbye.


“Thank you," said the voice I had only imagined up to that point that evening. I turned back as he broke his near sixty-minute silence. I nodded. Then I nodded once more. Then I kept nodding for minutes after their departure as his somewhat harmonious, not too low, not too high voice replayed in my head through that “thank you.”



I spent the rest of my shift helping Paul do his side work as the closing manager was busy taking his hourly, ten to fifteen-minute cigarette break. Paul had forgotten all about the sharks at table 8; after all, they were replaced by an athletic, picture-perfect couple who was then replaced by a married patron couple; the latter pair always tipped generously.


“Turned out a better night than expected,” Paul said as he counted his tips.


“Not bad at all,” I responded as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumbled receipt paper reading “Table 8; Server: Paul--Guest Copy." I turned it around to face the name which I had registered as Harry's Substitute: Derek Morgan-310-795–4555.


It took me three days before I texted him; three days of rereading “Derek Morgan-310-795–4555.
”

“Hi. This is Jude from Casa Bonita. How’s it going?”
I looked at my phone and reread the text message for a whole two minutes before making me way over to Casa Bonita from school.



It was a dragging evening at Casa Bonita, and to make the drag painstakingly, Harry wasn’t scheduled again. Neither was Paul. Fortunately, neither was the manager who always took a
 ten to fifteen-minute cigarette break per hour. Jacob was the closing manager that night, and next to Harry, he was the sweetest part of Casa Bonita. Jacob wasn’t particularly chatty, but he always smiled and had saved me countlessly from the waiting list onslaught on Taco Madness nights (our version of Taco Tuesday); consistently parched, ravenous, drunk men waiting to get their table made for a bad combo and I was usually on the snacking end of the conundrum when the free chips and salsa started running low; I replaced their stale fingers foods through their accidental-but-not-accidental-at-all brushing of rough, firm, sometimes skeletal, sometimes pudgy-feeling limbs.

But Jacob always rescued me from these potentially sticky situations. Whether it was striking empty drink glasses, refilling the chips and salsa at the bar, helping me carry full trays that were too heavy for my 5’6, 120 pounds body to handle, or most helpful and appreciated—striking conversations with belligerent, obnoxious, entitled guests who would have otherwise tried striking conversations with me since nobody else batted an eye their way: Jacob was my life-saver. Ironically, we barely exchanged more than three words per shift.


“Hiya Jude; Let me help you with that; Have a goodnight Jude." These were his recitations to me throughout an entire night together. Initially, I attributed his silence to professionalism; he extended a similar vocabulary to the servers and bus boys. But then there were those nights he'd laugh with the seasoned bus boys or with Paul over some raunchy joke; then there were the nights he’d cheer on The Bears alongside the minority whenever we'd air the big game on our big screen TV; then there were the nights he’d talk for hours with the owner—a woman known for her antagonistic, managing tactic; she smiled at Jacob’s moving lips--and this was coming from a woman who wouldn’t lift her own upper-lip when confronted by the wittiest of servers. Then...I turned my attention to my phone as I hid by the bussing station.

“Are you working?" I read his text as I kept an eye for Jacob. He wasn't one to discipline employees over petty behaviors, but I still didn't want him to see me in a defrauding light.

“I am," I responded at the speed of light, waiting for his response an entire two minutes before walking back into the light.

It was during my last hour that I saw him, sitting by himself at table 13; I wondered how he had managed to infiltrate Casa Bonita unnoticed. One of the seasoned, obtrusive, table-snatching servers—Grimes—went to take his order. Without hesitation and as if some ungodly force had taken over my legs, 
I jolted to the bar and started wiping it down with a dish rag, though there wasn’t much to wipe seeing a total of six people had sat by it during that shift; still, it was the closest focal point to 13. I wiped slowly, going back and forth and back and forth between one spot before moving to the next and moving closer to 13. As Grimes wrote on his notepad and tried up-selling Derek on queso dip, I longed; I longed for him to utter a “yes, no, can I have a blended Margarita.” I longed for any reverberation of his harmonious, moderately low, moderately high voice.


“Can you run some water, chips, and salsa for me while I put this in?” demanded Grimes as he noticed my minimal labor.


“What table?” I asked, knowing perfectly what table he was referring to; there were no other new tables in sight, but wishful thinking never hurt.

"13," Grimes confirmed my suspicion as he stood, trying to work through his usual brain fog when operating the POS was involved.

I couldn’t even take my time grabbing the water; we were so slow Grimes and the rest of the bus boys had filled nearly thirty glasses for incoming tables; the same applied to the baskets of chips and salsa.
I shifted gears, almost running to 13 from the bussing station, figuring that the quicker I dropped-off the waters, the quicker I’d escape despite having been eagerly awaiting his text minutes prior. Never in my seventeen years on planet Earth had someone made me feel so uneasy; not even Harry.

I stopped and set the tray on table 14 next to him, then I placed the chips in front of him, followed by the salsa, and lastly the water. He grabbed the plastic glass and immediately took a large, loud gulp; louder than the pitch of his voice the one and only time I heard its vocalization.


“Your server will be back shortly," 
I said my first spoken words to him, cowering immediately after by grabbing my bussing tray and starting my way back, unsure if I was heading to the bussing station or the POS but surely escaping.


“Thanks!” He blurted out as I was halfway between table 11 and 9. Again, just like the first time he uttered those two, exact words to me, I turned and nodded, unsure of whether I was smiling or had a cold expression to match his. After my two-second pause in steps, I opted for sanctuary by the POS.


“Can you help me run—" Grimes started another slothful request before I deflected him with “I need to go the restroom." I locked the bathroom door as quickly as I opened it, my back leaning against it. I didn’t have to pee; I hadn’t ingested much of anything that day aside from a chocolate milk at school and an apple fritter before my shift; it was a good thing, too, for anything in my stomach surely would have regurgitated at the sight of him. Then I felt it again, the vibration I had been waiting for over an hour. “Where did you go?” I reread his text twice as I leaned against the door and debated when to reenter that desolate jungle.

The rest of his stay wasn’t as exalting as expected; he ordered vegetarian enchiladas, one Margarita, and flan for dessert, skipping on the chips and salsa refill and impeding Grimes from interrupting my closing side work to dispatch me his away again. Nevertheless, he gave me one last, green-eyed pounce before leaving. My insides twisted, chills crawled down my back, and yet, I immediately ran to the bussing station to check my phone only minutes after his departure.

“When do you not work?” I read his text as the closing busser texted his "going on thirty years together" significant other. “I’m not working tomorrow, Saturday, Sunday and Monday-Wednesday of next week," I responded two seconds too late as Jacob walked into the bussing station. I tried hiding my phone, but instead I stood and smiled aimlessly. Jacob returned the smile gently as he filled his empty glass and released me with "You can go home if you're done with your side work."

He didn’t respond as I got tipped out. He didn’t respond while I waited for the 4. He didn’t respond as I read the last two chapters of The Virgin Suicides. He didn’t respond until I stopped waiting for a response.

“Hi," I read his text as I headed-out to 7-Eleven for a powdered donuts and large, sugary coffee breakfast.

“Good morning! How is it going? Enjoying your Sunday so far?" I typed as I made my way down Sunset Blvd.

“What are you doing?” he responded as I missed the stoplight for Sunset Blvd. and Coronado.

“I’m grabbing breakfast—I haven’t made plans for the day yet. Yourself? Any—Watch the road, idiot!” I was interrupted mid-text by a road raged driver as I accidentally crossed a red light on Sunset Blvd. and Alvarado.

“Sorry!” I yelled as I finished my first act of delinquency. “I’m grabbing breakfast—I haven’t made plans for the day yet. Yourself? Any plans for today?” I sent the text, hopeful that risking my life was worth it.

I poured my usual half-powdery, sugary mocha mixed with the Colombian brew, then made my way over to the snacks section, settling for the chocolate donut holes since the powdered sugar ones were out of stock. After paying, I lingered outside that 7-11 entrance like I did every Sunday, watching vagrants and Portland, Michigan, and other Midwest hipster transplants come in-and-out. This eye-candy portion of my Sunday routine complimented my sugary, caffeinated breakfast indulgently.

“Let’s meet up," he responded as I put the second-to-last sweet hole into my mouth.

“That’d be great! Where do you want to go? Dinner and a movie? Dinner and dessert? I’m open," I responded and waited a few minutes as I enjoyed the last of my sweet breakfast and watched a few more jean jacket-torn-skinny-jean-wearing-petite-bordering-on-emaciated men enter and exit. I got up, threw away my empty cup and donut wrapping, and walked; walked away from home, away from George; he routinely visited Sunday mornings hence my routine 7-Eleven breakfasts away from him; away from them.

I visited a mom and pop book shop that was extremely popular with both Echo Park newcomers and natives. It was one of the few places warmly welcomed amidst the blooming wave of early 2000’s gentrification. I had compiled a considerable book collection from there since my sophomore year; Mice of Men, East of Eden, How to Kill a Mockingbird, Gone with the Wind. Midway through junior year my interest clutched onto Paulo Coelho per recommendation of the pinkish-tanned, buzz cut, exuberant, early 20’s cashier; per my own inquisitiveness, I discovered the literary deity known as Haruki Murakami who engulfed me in his world of horrific fantasy infused throughout WW2 allegories. That Sunday, though, I was feeling...like something closer to home; something along the lines of my last purchased piece that I admittedly read in two nights: Giovanni’s Room.

“Is Tommy here?” I asked the replacement cashier to the pinkish-tanned, buzz cut, exuberant, early 20’s cashier.

“No," answered the replacement cashier as he looked directly at his computer, mumbling to himself whatever was on the screen. I hesitated. I had no reason to; if anywhere was accepting of the type of literature I was seeking, it was that bookshop and the readers it allured. Still...the name of the author became knotted halfway up my throat the same way James Baldwin’s did when I inquired about Giovanni’s Room.

“Do you have Maurice?” the name finally escaped up my larynx and through my lips.

“Who wrote it? Sounds familiar," asked the replacement cashier as he continued reading what was on the screen, internalizing his mumbling.

“E.M. Forster..." I responded, wondering how knowledgeable this replacement cashier was regarding thematically inhibited literary deities.

“E.M. Forster...fiction?” the underqualified replacement cashier investigated further. The knotted words stopped at my quivering lips; it was an irrational fear in that day and age but still one relevant to my teenage reality, specifically when reading Giovanni’s Room and hearing my bedroom door creaking open by my mother’s hand.

“Nothing comes up. Are you sure it’s under fiction?” the replacement cashier reiterated his established ineptitude.

The replacement cashier was a frizzy-haired, hazel-eyed man whose sagging cheeks and eyes were likely a result of his dry disposition. Nevertheless, he didn’t strike as someone who’d devalue me for uttering the next, possible genre that specific, timely controversial work might be under. Nevertheless—the knot—the knot in my throat turned into a huge bulge; where was that pinkish-tanned, buzz cut, exuberant, early 20’s cashier when I needed him most!

“Gay literature...” I said, exposing my taste completely. The replacement cashier typed more as I looked around me; everyone minded their own literary pursuits, their own internal conflicts as they sat, reading while sipping on their Soy Lattes or Kombuchas on draft. Nevertheless, I felt like so many eyes were reading me through.

“He’s actually under fiction, but we don’t have that book. We can special order it, if you want?” the replacement cashier finally spoke again after what felt like an hour of silence.

“I’ll find something else. Thank you regardless," I said my parting words to him and walked over to the fiction section, starting a new search though the rows arranged alphabetically by author names. After five minutes of exploring the sheleves while peripherally eyeing the brunette, burly, late 20’s man holding Animal Farm, my treasure chest made its grand appearance; its cover--white, tattered paperback-- called out for attention while squeezed between Fitzgerald's prolific prints; an unknown force guided my hands towards the overshadowed masterpiece. I looked at the tuxedo-wearing gentlemen on the cover; he welcomed me; we belonged together: The Movie Lover.

It was more fascinating than imagined; while Giovanni’s Room gave me entry into gay literature, The Movie Lover was in a completely different ball room. Its protagonist--Burton Raider--is an unapologetically gay, poor-little-rich-boy who embarks on a journey to adapt his one and only A-grade, college written novel. I lost myself on his crusade until a small bed vibration transported me back to my reality.

“You free at 7?” I read his text an hour before the inquired time.

“I am!” I responded with fifty-seven minutes of preparation to spare.

“Be ready. Send me your address," he responded five minutes later as I eyed my drawer, thinking what t-shirts I hadn't already dirtied at school that week.

“122 Witmer Apt.4 9026. The code to the building is 2445," I texted him and immediately started turning my drawer inside out.

“Be down at 7," I read as four shirts and three jeans options laid on my bed.

“I'll be ready!" I responded before hiding my phone under my bed and running to seize the restroom. As much as I wanted to continue alongside Burton’s gay escapades and romantic tribulations, I had too little time to jump in the shower and prepare for my own fated expedition.

"I need to shower,” I knocked on the bathroom door as I heard the shower head running. “Mom—open up!” I knocked harder, getting ready to kick on the door if I didn’t get a response.

“Give us a minute kid—we’re almost done," his raspy, Miller Lite-stricken voice taunted me as he opened the door—naked, hairy, wet chest exposing itself as if I was going to idolizes it in its repugnance; he looked me straight in the eyes with those porky, beady eyes; he got a kick out of seeing my expression, knowing that I knew exactly what they were doing in there. “I’ll be done soon,” he said, slowly closing the door but leaving a smidgen gap, attempting to taunt me further.

He finished a quarter before 7. The moment their footsteps completely faded as they locked themselves back in my mom’s room, I sped out my own refuge and locked myself in the restroom, getting naked faster than ever and taking the swiftest and most necessary shower of my life. I scrubbed with a precision that certainly eradicated every good and bad bacteria lingering on my epidermis. I brushed my teeth and flossed as if my entire day’s nourishment had been BBQ Ribs instead of six minuscule donuts. Lastly, I gelled my wet hair; a mane I could neither spike it up nor comb to the side. I needed a haircut then and there and time was against me in every sense of the word.

“Here. Where are you? Hurry. This place isn’t open all night," I read his influx of texts as I got dressed, my jeans giving me the battle of a lifetime as I struggled to slip my legs through the inseams; had the donuts and peanut butter and jelly Uncrustables started to take effect? I didn’t have time to dwell on this sudden bodily insecurity as I slipped-on a “Guardians of the Galaxy” t-shirt, grabbed a sweater, my wallet and sprinted out of my bedroom and out the front door all by 7:01.

There he was, impatiently inside a gray Focus. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, his hair was cleanly combed to the side, and his green eyes focused forward.

“Get in. We’re late," he cued me to enter through the passenger seat door.

“Sorry about that. I was in the shower and thought you weren’t—" I tried excusing myself for my one-minute delay.

“It’s fine, it is what it is," he said as he started his engine. He started entering directions into his GPS for what I assumed was our dinner destination, assuming dinner was still in his agenda for the night. We drove for an entire two-three minutes before I broke the silence with “How was your day?”

“It was fine,” he responded, eyes focused on the road and ears receptive of every direction his GPS gave.

“Do anything fun?” he continued small banter for fear of falling back into mentally homicidal silence.

“Visited my parents," he said, his eyes unbending in their focus.

“That’s nice," I responded in the manner family-enriched people do when referring to parents.

“No. It’s not," he rebuked my commentary, making silence feel less deathly. The conversation fell into coma for another 2-3 three minutes before he lifted the silence with “What did you do?”

“Nothing much. Read. A really good book, actually, The Movie Lover by Richard Friedel. Have—-Shhh!” he said and he brought his index finger to my lips, redirecting his focus to the next GPS instruction.

“You were saying...” he gave me permission to continue a minute later.

“I bought a book today, I like it so far. That’s all," I finished short of my actual book review. "Where do your parents live?”

“Simi Valley," he answered, his focus not willing to give me another chance.

“That’s not far," I responded given my minimal knowledge of that LA county region.

“It feels far," he responded, prompting another flatness in the air as fear took over me, a fear warning me to stop any furthering questioning about his parents, his day, or anything else involving his day-day routine.

“You like Mexican food, right?” he asked nearly four minutes later.

“Um. Sure?” I answered, trying to appease his palate.

“Do you or do you not?” he asked, suspecting my forced flexibility.

“I love a good wet burrito and nachos," I responded with the only two items I enjoyed from Casa Bonita's kitchen.

“So you don’t like Mexican..." he murmured to himself and nodded; nodded and nodded and drove, unwilling to break his focus.

I got home around 2am. They didn’t notice my return, and they wouldn’t have said anything if they had. I went straight back into the shower. I made it quick; it wasn't some dramatic meltdown where I scrubbed off the metaphorical filth and cried and kneeled down into a corner letting my tears drown along the shower head current; I simply needed another shower.

I laid in bed. I thought about him and our shared night. I replayed everything about him; the moment he and the dehydrated gentleman walked into Casa Bonita that first night; I replayed the first “thank you” that exited his lips by the end of their meal; I replayed his second “thank you” during his second visit; I replayed his first and second look at me; those green eyes looking at me with the contemplation of whether to hold me dearly or break slowly; he settled for the latter option from the moment he texted me that Sunday morning. I drifted off to sleep at 3:00 am, waking up to four bathroom trips caused by false signals from the pit of my stomach met with a painful, bloody exit. Each bloody excretion incomplete in its purging.

Time heals all pain, I reminded myself while excruciatingly sitting through each class period the following day, all fifty-five minutes of lecturing feeling like an entire day of school. But, the sitting pain was secondary to one standing within; it wasn’t heartbreak. Even at seventeen, I knew the foolishness of romance under those circumstances. It was the replaying; waking up that morning to my first bathroom visit; the 10 bus ride; first period Marine Bio, second period Economics, and my fifteen-minute bathroom trip during Lunch; the replaying remained. The replaying of his harmonious, moderately low, moderately high voice producing words contrasting to its pitch.

“Stop talking; stop being desperate; stop talking and relax; we can’t have sex and be friends; Shh! You’re killing the mood; no, you killed the mood now; stop being desperate; we can’t have sex and be friends; we can’t have sex and be friends; we can’t have sex and be friends; it’s fine, the bleeding will stop, you’ll be fine; you’ll be fine; we can’t have sex and be friends. We can’t have sex and be friends. You'll be fine. You'll be fine.”

The replaying lasted through fifth period English through sixth period Drama through my 4 bus ride back home through my early PB and J dinner through descending into an early slumber, my phone clutched tightly in hand.

My call of nature the following morning proved one pain was nearly obsolete, just as he had promised. If only my existence had become obsolete.