A very good girl

As the girls form their own club upstairs with the boys, you lie on the ground beside the bed and consider the ceiling and all its irregular cracks that fan through the lime green paint of an older generation, and in the background come the sounds of drums and a muffled roar of someone else's guitars going through the paces, just like everything else seems to.

How tiring.

You are not asking for much, you say to yourself, and wonder how it can seem so impossible to him. An agreement, just like any that you'd make, an arrangement of fidelity, a promise that you keep, is all. You are no stranger to temptation. Boys approach and speculate with eyes, words and gestures, and many of them are pleasant enough, but you have made a decision that you stand by. The temptation doesn't matter, not to you. How is that hard? Is he really so weak, or is he just wired so differently that he can't see it?

These thoughts flitter through the blades of the whirling ceiling fan as the minutes of the afternoon stretch out on the clock ticking on the headboard. You could never abide that thing. How he could sleep with it making so much noise is a mystery to you.

Footsteps come up the hallway and the door opens and the breeze is cool on your skin.

"What are you still doing here?" His voice breaks the air, uncouth and certainly bitter.

It seems obvious enough not to require an answer. You are lying on your back and looking at the ceiling.

"Didn't you say it was through? Then it's through, isn't it?"

Moving is such a bother. Let him live around you while you just stay here.

"Come on, get up. The others will be finishing up soon. You don't want them to see you like this, do you?"

Like you could give a shit. They have certainly been of no help. Damon and Charlene, it's like they were trying to set him up with other girls, just to rankle you. The rest were complicit. They're no friends of yours. So what do you care what they think? But the thoughts do get you to turn your head, and once you do that, your arm starts to move, and before you can do more than complain, you are already getting up.

It's not been fun, you start to say, but don't. Where's your bra, anyway? Half-buried in the blankets, you fish it out and put it on. It's certainly the most awkward piece of clothing, and the one that makes you feel the most vulnerable while putting it on. He watches you with interest that he tries to cover with disdain. He's too confused and angry to really be aroused, anyway.

And, anyway, it's over.

The rest of of your clothes go on more easily, and then it's your bag on the chair. As you dress, all these things you could say swirl and bubble around in your head. Some of them are sentimental, or reconciliatory, and others are abusive and hateful. Some are just dumb. Forget it. The silence is better, probably, than the chance of misfired last words.

You walk past him at the door, slip by sideways so your shoulder doesn't brush him and don't look back as he trails you through the hall and downstairs. More footsteps are coming from above. The band is finished and the new club is coming back to the apartment. You just missed them. You make it to the front door, down the steps and to the street.

It's three blocks to the subway. What a horrible city. Fix your hair, you tell yourself. You probably look like hell. After all, you're released from that promise now. You might meet someone you'd care to talk to. You just might meet Mr. Right.