He can’t look at her anymore. He doesn’t want to touch her, hear her, smell her anymore. The gentle warmth of her breath in his ear as she whispered another endearment, another scandalous secret are abhorrent now.

He wishes he hadn’t let her do this to him. The plan was working. If he had just closed up like he had done over so many years in the past, none of this would have happened.

He was at her favorite shop in the mall this evening. His finger hovered over the call button as he debated silently whether to press it and have one more light-hearted conversation. One last conversation.

You see, I am a little emotionally fucked up. Yeah, my head’s a little whack. Well maybe more than a little. He grins sheepishly as he says this. One of many late-night phone conversations. The first in which he reveals so much, and certainly not the last.

Well, there has to be something. Right? There is a note of uncertainty in her voice. Does she wonder if he is just plain nuts? He turns his brain off before it can tell him to clam up. He laughs, a strange hollow laugh that sounds as if it was uttered from another body in the dim, cool room.

Well, there were three. The furthest I got was – well nowhere actually. Like I said, my brain has this amazing tendency to stop me from getting too involved with anyone. He shudders involuntarily. Shouldn’t-be-saying-so-much. Shut up. He snarls violently and slams his fist into the wall.

Is this a bad time? There’s that note of uncertainty again. Best to get this thing rolling now.

No, no. Just – mosquitoes. So I was saying—?

****** ****** ****** ****** ******

Now. Just look at her. He wonders if he should have said something earlier. A small part of him, a minute part really, wishes he had. He knocks his head back and drinks what’s left in the glass in two long swallows. There’s really no point in doing this. He wishes he could just jump into a car and drive somewhere. Anywhere. Nowhere. He looks at her again and has to fight back the urge to vomit.

She catches his eye and smiles, radiant. He feels that urge again.

No. Not that one. This one is different. He shakes his head so that particular one doesn’t go any further. He strides strangely purposefully to the dance-floor and puts his arms around the waist of a young, attractive stranger. She is inebriated enough not to care about this forwardness and he moves his hand to the small of her back and draws her close. He leans his head against the crown of hers and breathes in deeply to clear his head.

Instead he finds himself staggering away from her, that reflex having been triggered again. The perfume. He mumbles it to himself but someone behind him hears.

What perfume? He spins around and locks gazes with her. For a moment insurmountable rage courses through him but then he is lost in the inky black oblivion of her eyes. Then she repeats the question and the moment tears itself apart.

He walks away and wishes the night would end. It does. Mercifully soon, it does. He shakes the hand of and hugs a man whose skull he would much rather crush in. Formalities.

Heading towards the door, he is cut off by a small yet firm grip on his wrist. He stops and a clammy palm turns him around by his shoulders. Those eyes. Again. All he can see is her eyes. Bye you. And listen, I’m coming your side of town tomorrow. We should get together. He would want nothing more than to just push her away and leave right now but he allows himself to be kissed on the cheek.

She turns her head for another and he turns the other way to avoid it. The wrong way.

His lips, pressed closed from restrained anger meet hers, relaxed, almost open. His eyes widen, her grip on his arm tightens. They stand still, almost unwilling to break their fragile contact. His mouth relaxes of its own accord a second before he steps away and draws her into a tight embrace.

He turns and leaves.

****** ****** ****** ****** ******

He doesn’t speak to her for a week following that night.

The phone rings. He curses as he reads her name on the flashing screen. He holds his head in his hands, tired with this farce. He wishes it would be easy but his own state of turmoil tells him it will be nowhere close.

He presses the red button and goes back to his game of virtual genocide.

I wondered if this was love. Fuck, whatever it was, it sure was a hell of a lot like it. I, however, didn’t like it. Not very much.