Signed With Initials

Originally titled "The Friend Zone", a title which later went to an entirely different story. A more descriptive title would be "Emo High", but fuck you, this title means something to me. Written in Fall of 2008. I'm not usually in the habit of asking non-rhetorical questions in this blog, but feedback is highly appreciated, either positive or critical, so what do you think?





I know that when you tell me it’s you, it’s me. The cliches abound. You don’t want to involve me in the drama of your life, you tell me. I’m a very nice guy, you wish me the best of luck in life, and I’m going to find somebody, someday. The implication that “somebody” could never be you is clear. You tell me this condescending bullshit with a pouty face; for a moment I wonder if you believe what you’re spouting or if you’re simply going through the motions of establishing the “friend zone.” I’m sure that this isn’t the first time you’ve done this, you appeal to the kind of man who can never have you and your words seem almost rehearsed. You make sure to emphasize my good qualities, few though they may be. You're so smart, you tell me. You try for humor and tell me that chicks dig brainy guys. You speak at length while I fiddle with the pen in my fingers and try not to scan the parking lot, absent anything else to do or anything to say. If I tell you the truth, that I’d gladly handle any baggage you bring, I become pushy and obsessive in your eyes. That isn’t far from the truth, frankly, but it’s not conducive to a working friendship. I don’t aim to burn any bridges, so I voicelessly endure the litany of reasons why it’s your fault you don’t want to be with me, while I click my pen and lick my lips and try not to look as empty as I feel.
You spoil what had been a fairly clean dismissal with a few simple words at the end, an afterthought better left unsaid. You tell me that you have feelings for me and my stomach drops. Before you can go on, I stop you cold. I say, you shouldn’t have told me that. I wish you hadn’t told me that. I can barely get the words out; they’re very unsteady, but I make them clear enough to understand. I finally work up the gumption to look into your eyes and I see frustration creep in. No doubt, you think that you were doing me a service by validating my feelings and that I should quit while I’m ahead, while you still want to remain friends. When you ask what I mean by that; I want to be quiet; I want to restrain myself and tell you that it’s just hard and confusing for me and that I really appreciate what you’re doing. I don’t do that. I instead tell you in a steady voice that I wish you didn’t feel the need to lie to me. Your forehead crinkles and your eyes narrow, your mouth comes ajar and your face is angrier than I’ve ever seen it. Red creeps into your skin. I reflexively flinch when you step toward me, big tough man that I am. You grab my ridiculous hair and kiss me so hard that our teeth clack together painfully. You wipe your mouth and storm toward your car. I follow, but your legs are longer and with the head start, you’re in your car before I’m within twenty feet. Days later, I realize that if I had yelled to you that my gum was still on your dash, I very well could have made you laugh and maybe our first kiss wouldn’t have been our last.