10
Ryan
Ipark in her road and switch off the engine. After stopping quickly for her to get some air, and avoid being sick all over the car, we haven’t said a word to each other. We just sit there quietly, listening to each other breathe, filling the silence with nothing, just as it should be.
We don’t even really know each other, and if she hadn’t drunk a bit too much – despite knowing she’d be driving – I wouldn’t be here with her, in her car, in front of her house.
Ian isn’t here yet and, not knowing what to do, I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, anxious to get out and leave her to her fate.
What a shit situation. This is why I prefer not to have friends. Then I wouldn’t find myself somewhere I don’t want to be with someone I barely know, who really gets on my nerves.
I take a deep breath of the air inside the car, a mixture of alcohol and women’s perfume that reminds me of something I never want to be reminded of.
It’s been a while since I was last this close to a woman, just the two of us, and it makes me uncomfortable. Not that I’m interested in that kind of thing: I try actively to avoid them, ignoring signals and escaping from closeness with any women unless strictly necessary. Unless we’re talking about a very brief physical encounter.
Yet her perfume starts to go to my head, like three or four glasses of whiskey – as if she’s trying to intoxicate me, confuse me, to draw me in towards something dangerous. Something that I wouldn’t want to get close to even by mistake.
As if I’m developing an addiction.
But it’s a nice smell, one that I don’t recognise – or, at least, one I thought I’d forgotten. It’s delicate yet seductive. Sweet, but with just the right amount of spice. Something I can’t stand, yet desperately need.
I throw a furtive glance in her direction while she keeps her eyes glued out of the window. I notice the shape of her legs, slim in her tight, dark jeans. Her chest is just visible in her shirt, with one button too many undone, the lace of her bra peeking out of the top. I follow the silhouette of her face, lit dimly by the streetlights outside, which make her seem both mature and playful at the same time.
How old is she? Does she have a boyfriend? Or a husband?
“Do you have to?” she asks, glancing furiously at me, bringing me back to myself.
“What?”
“That noise…” she accuses me, gesturing towards my fingers.
I take them off the steering wheel, a peace offering, and she turns her back to me again, scoffing.
Obviously, she’s fed up of waiting too. It isn’t hard to tell that she’d rather be anywhere but here with me, and I can’t wait to get away from her.
Idiot.
Apparently, I haven’t learned a fucking thing about life.
I open the car door and get out, needing some air before I lose control and do or say something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I’ve already made that mistake once, and I don’t intend to make it again.
I take a few steps down her road, while she also gets out of the car and leans against the door. She digs around in her bag before producing a packet of cigarettes.
Great.She’s a smoker.
She lights one and inhales deeply, as if slowly killing her body will bring her back to life. I shake my head, and a grunt of disapproval escapes my lips.
“What’s wrong? Do you want one too, by any chance?”
“I’d never let that shit ruin my life.”
She lets out a sudden burst of laughter.
“Oh, sure,Mr Perfect!Don’t you stand there and lecture me about the fact that smoking’s bad for you!”
“I couldn’t care less how you decide to ruin your body. It’s none of my business.”
“Exactly,” she retorts, taking another drag and exhaling the smoke in my direction, challenging me.
