Editing this

He steps to the edge of the bed, where I’m sitting cross-legged, squats down to look me in the eye. It’s as if he never kissed me, as if we had never done whatever the hell we did. Now I could never ask. It would be as if I was looking for something.

I can’t ask him for a thing.

“Look,” he says. “you’re my best friend.”

Oh Christ: The Friend Zone. It’s not just guys who get stuck there. On today’s menu we have Mixed Messages: suitable for vegans and masochists.

I sometimes think guys like Matt don’t have anything resembling best friends. That’s because everyone is their friend. Things come easily to them. Life itself tumbles down from the damn clouds. Forget a gift from the gods. Theirs is sent straight from heaven itself.

“I wish I was a kid again,” I say, not really caring how much of a random statement that is.

It’s true.

Why it’s true I couldn’t exactly tell you, because I hated being little. The younger you are, the less say-so you have. The less control. The less determination over what the hell you can do with this life that’s given to you for no reason other than your mom and dad maybe had a little bit too much to drink in the backseat of the Honda one night.

He has the nerve to trace the back of my hand with his finger. “I like you where you are right now,” he says.

“Screw you, Matt.” My voice notches up to a new pitch, a surprising level of anger. It’s so damn obvious that this guy is a manipulator. He doesn’t give two shits for me. Right? Right.

Then out of nowhere I find my tongue in his mouth. He’s still squatting, but somehow he’s managing to slobber right back in my direction. He puts his hands on my shoulders and really lets me have it, and I’m feeling ways I’ve never felt with another human being other than myself under my covers with my door locked.

Did Tina feel this way? Did she –

Biting him comes out of a reflex, kind of the same way you might close your eyes against the wind or want to hurl when watching a New Wave video from the 1980s. There seems to be no choice here, and I don’t want there to be any. Something is manipulating my actions like a puppet with strings attached to its limbs. Fine by me. Fine. By. Me.

I taste blood and it’s metallic, kind of like if you were chewing on a lead pipe, before he pulls away. He pushes me aside, stands up, and stalks out of the room.

My phone goes and goes and goes.