“You’re acting like a little girl,” I tell her, pissed off. “How old are you? Fourteen? Maybe less…”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“Aren’t you talking a bit too much?” she asks me, putting out the cigarette with her heel and crossing her arms across her chest.
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you supposed to beMr-Long-Face-I-Hate-Everyone-Don’t-Piss-Me-Off?”
Fantastic. She’s also a psychoanalyst. There’s nothing in the world I hate more.
“Maybe I just don’t like talking to certain types of people.”
“Such as? Don’t I deserve a single word from you? A greeting? A wave?”
I shrug, showing her that I don’t care about what she thinks of me, or about this conversation that should never have happened in the first place. I hear her snarling behind me.
“Do you know what I think? You’re just a dickhead! A condescending, arrogant bastard!” she yells, storming past me and heading for the front door. “You can just leave the keys inside and then kindly go and fuck yourself!”. I do as she says, taking the keys out of my pocket and leaving them in the ignition.
I should just leave it – that’s what I normally do. It’s not a good idea to keep screaming back at her, but I can’t stand someone telling me where to shove it, then turning their back on me.
I stride over to her, before she has the chance to open the door and barricade herself inside. She stops in her tracks as soon as she feels my breath on her neck.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I growl from behind her.
She turns around to look me in the eyes, raising her chin. She keeps challenging me – she must really want a fight.
“The only thing wrong with me is that I keep associating myself with bastards like you – and trust me, I’ve met a good few.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I taunt.
I want to teach her a lesson, even though it’s not necessary.
“You’re the worst bastard I’ve ever met!” she screams, her hands balled tightly into fists by her sides.
“And you’re the dumbest, most irritating woman I’ve ever had the misfortune of speaking to!” I yell even louder, at the risk of waking up the neighbours.
Her hand suddenly makes direct contact with my left cheek. The sound of the slap comes before the burning sensation, quickly followed by the anger pulsing uncontrollably through my body.
I grab her hand, still suspended in mid-air, and step towards her, threateningly.
“Never touch me again,” I say, my voice hard, my fingers gripping her wrist tightly.
“You don’t scare me.”
The look on her face confirms what she’s telling me. She really isn’t scared of me. She holds my gaze, proud and strong-willed. Her eyes are wide and clear, fiery enough to set me alight in an instant. They’re green, or maybe brown; I can’t tell what colour they are, but I can make out a few golden specks, lost in a dark, immense ocean. An ocean ready to swallow you up, and never wash your body ashore.
They’re bewitching, tempting eyes.
They’re dangerous.
I slowly let go of her arm, my fingers brushing against hers, but I can still feel her.
Her skin.
The sparks of physical contact.
I take a few steps back, shocked, while she stands there, unperturbed. Then I turn away quickly, getting myself as far away as possible, with my head in my hands, afraid that I’ve been stabbed in the heart once again.
