14
Jan
08

The Man, part 2.

Bandaid



I got the call just as I was leaving work. I almost snapped off the band-aid from my finger while scrambling to get the phone out of my pocket. What the hell does she want now? Isn’t it enough that she rejected me? Is this some sort of sick game to her? I know alot of things, the only problem is that most of it’s wrong. One thing I am certain of however is that I love her. Or loved her, whichever makes me less pathetic. For the longest time she seemed like she was deciding. What she wanted from life, what she wanted from me. In reality though she had probably figured out exactly what she needed me for quite some time ago. Some sort of male companionship.

When other men treated her like shit she needed me to come in and reassure her. Tell her she didn’t deserve what she got. Keep her company. Maybe watch a movie and eat dinner together, in our little apartments. Knowing full well that I wanted her. On second thought it was entirely possible she couldn’t quite understand just how much this feeling had taken over my life. No, no she had to know. Not fully, but surely an inkling had to appear somewhere in that head of hers. We were more than friends. “Just friends” as she put it. The phrase that can make any grown man feel like he’s back in school, having just been humiliated in front of the class.

“This is my heart, please don’t dump it on the floor.”

I really need to get back home first and have a shower and change this band-aid. It’s starting to itch, a whole lot. If this thing gets infected I swear to God I’m going to go berserk! I’m not going to lose a finger over a bet. How the hell was I to know that Indian would be so good at the knife game? Proving once again that whisky and sharp objects don’t mix. The band-aid is getting frayed around the edges and discoloured. If only it was a Flintstones one like when you were a kid. That would be cute, that would be a way in when you’re picking up women. What the hell am I thinking? “Hey baby, wanna see my disfigured finger?” Sexy, real sexy.

Who was it that had fucked her and left this time? Some dashingly handsome actor? A mysterious musician? A successful banker? It didn’t matter. They were all the same underneath. The same insecure, preening, posturing bullshit artists that equally insecure women fall for. I knew most of these guys through friends of friends and acquaintances. Walking human echoes, one and all. What a whiny little bitch I had become.

At times that little piece of plastic cloth felt like it was the only thing holding me together.

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