~ a story ~
I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t speed, my car now ceased from zipping in between other vehicles on our way to the restaurant. You started yelling at me, said my driving fried your nerves and was the act of a petulent child. With those words any of my inclinations towards conversation ceased.
Since I couldn’t scream, or cry, or speed, when I parked I took a slight detour before heading towards the restaurant and bought a notebook.
The waitress was nice, quickly taking our orders and leaving. A blind man could see how tense our mood was. The silence between us was thick with everything unsaid.
Instead of speaking what was in my heart. Instead of burdening you further. Instead of doing the happy healthy adult conversation thing, I opened my newly acquired little leather bound journal and began writing.
I want to say this. Oh, how I want to say this. But I can’t say this.
I can’t tell you that I think your Daddy is a douchbag and your Dom is an asshole. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that they are both out of your life.
I can’t say this because you are my friend, and I love you. I can’t say this because I can’t say “I love you” in the way I really do: full throated, deep, guttural, all body love.
You sit there, quiet, your head on your fist, your gaze distant. Your eyes, thick with makeup, are still puffy from your tears. Your face is stern, but I can still see the pain in your eyes.
I want to kiss them, to kiss away your pain. If I could I would breathe in your pain, take the hurt for you, create a world where your suffering had ended.
This was suppose to be our weekend. They both knew that. They both knew that I, as your best friend, was entitled to one weekend a month. They had the rest of your time for their twenty-seven step tea preparations, nightly foot rubs, and morning blowjobs. This was my time, our time together.
I drove five hours to be here. I took off a day of work. This was suppose to be my time.
But then they did their douche-y asshole-ish thing and fucked it all up. I fucking hate them. HATE THEM!!!
And the worst part is I know you will go back to them. Know you will beg forgiveness, no doubt wearing one of your frilly geisha outfits that they’ll just rip off of you, no matter how long it took you to make the thing. I know you will promise to do better, be better, even though I believe you are perfect.
What if they ask you to give me up? Will you? Will you just throw me away like they throw away your care and affection you give them every day?
I love you, Carrie. Love you as more than a friend. Love you as more than a BFF. I dream of the day when your eyes look on me with more than just congenial affection, with more than just platonic excitement. But will it ever happen?
Do you even see it? Do you even know?
Do you even see me?
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