(no subject)
THE CUP \\ 4.7.06 \\
I didn’t mean to do it. I mean, I didn’t mean to, but I did it. I can’t believe it. I did, whether or not I meant to, and now it’s over, irretrievably.
I meant it. That motherfucker needed to pay.
We met at a party of his, which I afterwards learned had been set up expressly for the purpose of meeting me. Which sounds manipulative and borderline-stalkerly, but hey, if that’s what makes him get off, then by all means. What a dick.
We did talk for hours about literature and the arts, and how amazingly important they were for “nourishing the soul” and all (I was humoring the bastard for a night of free drinks). He seemed like a nice guy - well-mannered and well-off - but I didn’t want anything to do with him. Goodnight, it was fun!, I yelled, running out the door after my friends who then told me about the whole set-up, and how they were invited only to bring me there with them. His plan had worked. The disease caught, and not unpredictably. It was easy enough, I guess. Plaster on enough talk about Kundera and anyone will mistake it for a sincere belief in love. And let it be known that I’m a sucker for the intellectual type; he made the bill to fit, and snugly.
When he saw me next, we were drinking coffee.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said as he sultrily stirred in his sugar, “but how do you like your eggs cooked?”
What kind of a question was that? “Usually I order scrambled eggs, though occasionally when I’m dying to kill myself quickly, I get them fried, over medium.”
“Well, we must be made for each other. That’s what I always have - over medium.” And he smiled. I was slipping. It was a gorgeous smile.
Unfortunately, his smile was only one of an overabundance of attractive traits. He had impeccable skin, a jawline to be envied, and despite the somewhat pre-pubescent absence of facial hair, an excellently muscular body. So I wondered what it was he saw in me, seeing that I don’t think of myself as particularly attractive.
We began to see each other more often, occasionally having dinner or inviting the other to see a movie. Finally one night, the little fucker decided to ask me over to his place. He made me dinner, and that, I’m sure, had to have meant something to him. Nobody had ever made me dinner on a date before.
“That was nice,” I said, not really knowing what to say. It was nice. We had finished eating, and were by then sitting on his couch. He looked at me, and it was that look, the ‘I really, really, really want to kiss you right now, but I hope you don’t make me ask you’ one. When I didn’t do anything to help the situation, he finally succumbed to temptation and asked, “Can I kiss you?” What do you say? That son of a bitch stole my first kiss from me, and I remember enjoying it.
I’m still crying. I can’t believe I did it. I mean, you don’t just do something like that and walk away. But I did, and I don’t think I even said a word to him as I ran away.
I thought I had more dignity than that. Politeness always wins points, or karma, or something. No, I’m not a very well-mannered girl, now that I’ve proved it with what I did. I think I ended it, right there. He should’ve ended it when it first became clear (to both of us) that our relationship wasn’t working any more.
I could have ended it. I could have said, “Ben, let’s take some time off.” Of course, I never would have been able to pull it off. That fucking smile of his, that sadistically, painfully beautiful smile that never ceased to cease any question I entertained of his attachment to me.
We were having coffee again when I first realized my boyfriend the asshole was, in fact, an asshole. I was in trouble at home with my parents, who couldn’t exactly fathom what my prospective job opportunities after college would be. They were threatening me, threatening to not send my tuition if I didn’t change majors. After explaining the situation to Ben in what I thought was a very clear and concise way, he unceremoniously shoveled it into a bag like a piece of dog shit. He said, “I thought you valued your relationship with your parents. Why not make them happy? Take a few business classes, and anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to learn something other than philosophy. You know, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Like philosophy isn’t a valid, acceptable course of study. Look, what you do isn’t inherently any more decent.” But then I realized that his profession - public relations assistant for a large publishing house - already made him more money in a month than what I had in my savings. Because I didn’t have a job. That bastard. He had to be right.
“Lena, you’re the kind of girl who knows who she is. That’s what I like about you: your independence, how you don’t care about what people think of you or whether your clothes match.” He paused for a moment. “But I think you should do this. For your parents, and for me. You should consider what your future’s going to be, for everyone involved. For you. It doesn’t mean you can’t do what you want, just that you’ll have to do it on your own time. We all have to make a living somehow.”
He knew what I loved and how to make it seem worthless. Later that night he stole my virginity. I was drunk. His smile convinced me that everything would be okay, even though I knew I didn’t love him and never would.
I called him up to ask if I'd see him later. His work had gotten in the way, again. “I’d love to, baby,” he reassured me, “but I’m supposed to take a client out for dinner. Maybe tomorrow night. I don’t think there’s anything scheduled.” I wanted to take that fucking planner out and shred it, let the pieces fall from the window to the pavement below like shrapnel.
We never talked about moving in together. It wouldn’t have worked. I, not being the kind of girl to charm clients, would have been sitting at home watching the clock, wondering whether his ‘business deal’ constituted the pants I’d have ironed being pulled down by some whore, his ‘transaction’ the money being paid up-front, crumpled wads of cash resting on the scarred dresser. I didn’t need to live with him to worry about that.
I’m shaking. His face, when I did it, was completely calm. He couldn’t have thought I’d know. Ben’s arms were outstretched, about to take me into them. The message he left on my phone earlier was priceless. Trying to sound sincere, he said, “I have to wrap up a few more things. It’s taken longer than I thought, but I think I’ll be out of here in just a little while. Okay? Meet me at our Starbucks, in, say, half an hour. You know what I always order. Love you, sweetie.” It didn’t sound suspicious at all, but because he was too genuinely interested, too sincere, too loving, it had to be fake. An act. It had to be. He couldn’t love me.
It must have been an hour ago, our encounter. Ben jumped out of the cab in front of the coffee place, fifteen minutes late. He shut the cab door and stepped onto the curb. I saw him arrive and went outside, letting the door close behind. He walked up to me, smiling, and it was enough to kill. Ben’s expression, of love, never altered as my arm hurled a grande extra-hot cinnamon latte at his face. He didn’t even have time to realize what had just transpired (and neither did I). It was his drink, and I thought he should have it.
Ben, the scalding-hot coffee dripping from his hair and nose, just stood there. He didn’t even wince. He froze. I would have, too, except suddenly it occurred to me that I’d done something terrible. So I ran away. It was the only thing I could do. I looked back, and he hadn’t moved.
I found a bench, in a small park surrounded on all sides by languorous traffic. The bright red and white lights are still too much for my blurred eyes. I’ve been sitting here for an hour, and I can’t stop myself from thinking. Why the fuck did I do that? He’s the best thing I have, and in a second I threw it all away. He’s the best thing I have? I don’t know what to think anymore. When we met, I didn’t process through what we were doing, whether it was… good for me. It felt right, and that was enough. I was innocent then. And what am I now? Empty.
“Lena.”
I look up. It’s Ben. I don’t say anything.
“Lena, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’m sorry. I thought you were happy.” He pauses. “I’m so sorry. What can do to fix this? Tell me what I’ve done wrong, and I promise you, we can make this work.”
It’s not about fixing it, fuckhead. “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”
He sat down next to me. His feet were tucked beneath the bench, eyes studying his hands. He was visibly hurt (not to mention his red forehead), but seemed more concerned about me than himself.
Ben hadn’t been cheating on me. That much was obvious by now. The look on his face as I threw the cup was the most genuinely loving look I’d ever been given. But why am I not reciprocating, not trusting him?
He looked up and asked, “What is it you need to know?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
“Okay, Lena, you have to be honest with me. I’m doing the best I can right now. I’m no good at being intimate with anyone, and I know you’ve noticed. Work has always been my escape from life. Before you, it was all I had. Hell, you’re the first girl I’ve taken seriously. And very seriously. Lena, I hope you know that I love you.”
I’m feeling sick. Trapped. Nobody told me that with experience comes a certain amount of cynicism. But I look up at him. Ben’s eyes are still the same ones, constant. They’re showing just as much emotion as when he stepped out of that cab. He kisses me on the cheek, holding my shoulder with one hand.
“I want to work this out with you,” he says quietly, “ but I need to know that this is what you want.”
“Yes.”
“Really?” His smile, hesitant but radiant, returned to his face.
“Yes.” I’m… I’m letting go. He’s still the one I fell for at the very beginning, as soon as I met him. No more doubt, no more holding back. I look at him again, as I start to cry - soft tears, warm, cleansing. He leans over and holds me.
“Do you still want coffee?” I ask. He thinks for a moment and then shakes his head. And I laugh. I probably wouldn’t want to risk it, either, if I were him.
I didn’t mean to do it. I mean, I didn’t mean to, but I did it. I can’t believe it. I did, whether or not I meant to, and now it’s over, irretrievably.
I meant it. That motherfucker needed to pay.
We met at a party of his, which I afterwards learned had been set up expressly for the purpose of meeting me. Which sounds manipulative and borderline-stalkerly, but hey, if that’s what makes him get off, then by all means. What a dick.
We did talk for hours about literature and the arts, and how amazingly important they were for “nourishing the soul” and all (I was humoring the bastard for a night of free drinks). He seemed like a nice guy - well-mannered and well-off - but I didn’t want anything to do with him. Goodnight, it was fun!, I yelled, running out the door after my friends who then told me about the whole set-up, and how they were invited only to bring me there with them. His plan had worked. The disease caught, and not unpredictably. It was easy enough, I guess. Plaster on enough talk about Kundera and anyone will mistake it for a sincere belief in love. And let it be known that I’m a sucker for the intellectual type; he made the bill to fit, and snugly.
When he saw me next, we were drinking coffee.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said as he sultrily stirred in his sugar, “but how do you like your eggs cooked?”
What kind of a question was that? “Usually I order scrambled eggs, though occasionally when I’m dying to kill myself quickly, I get them fried, over medium.”
“Well, we must be made for each other. That’s what I always have - over medium.” And he smiled. I was slipping. It was a gorgeous smile.
Unfortunately, his smile was only one of an overabundance of attractive traits. He had impeccable skin, a jawline to be envied, and despite the somewhat pre-pubescent absence of facial hair, an excellently muscular body. So I wondered what it was he saw in me, seeing that I don’t think of myself as particularly attractive.
We began to see each other more often, occasionally having dinner or inviting the other to see a movie. Finally one night, the little fucker decided to ask me over to his place. He made me dinner, and that, I’m sure, had to have meant something to him. Nobody had ever made me dinner on a date before.
“That was nice,” I said, not really knowing what to say. It was nice. We had finished eating, and were by then sitting on his couch. He looked at me, and it was that look, the ‘I really, really, really want to kiss you right now, but I hope you don’t make me ask you’ one. When I didn’t do anything to help the situation, he finally succumbed to temptation and asked, “Can I kiss you?” What do you say? That son of a bitch stole my first kiss from me, and I remember enjoying it.
I’m still crying. I can’t believe I did it. I mean, you don’t just do something like that and walk away. But I did, and I don’t think I even said a word to him as I ran away.
I thought I had more dignity than that. Politeness always wins points, or karma, or something. No, I’m not a very well-mannered girl, now that I’ve proved it with what I did. I think I ended it, right there. He should’ve ended it when it first became clear (to both of us) that our relationship wasn’t working any more.
I could have ended it. I could have said, “Ben, let’s take some time off.” Of course, I never would have been able to pull it off. That fucking smile of his, that sadistically, painfully beautiful smile that never ceased to cease any question I entertained of his attachment to me.
We were having coffee again when I first realized my boyfriend the asshole was, in fact, an asshole. I was in trouble at home with my parents, who couldn’t exactly fathom what my prospective job opportunities after college would be. They were threatening me, threatening to not send my tuition if I didn’t change majors. After explaining the situation to Ben in what I thought was a very clear and concise way, he unceremoniously shoveled it into a bag like a piece of dog shit. He said, “I thought you valued your relationship with your parents. Why not make them happy? Take a few business classes, and anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to learn something other than philosophy. You know, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Like philosophy isn’t a valid, acceptable course of study. Look, what you do isn’t inherently any more decent.” But then I realized that his profession - public relations assistant for a large publishing house - already made him more money in a month than what I had in my savings. Because I didn’t have a job. That bastard. He had to be right.
“Lena, you’re the kind of girl who knows who she is. That’s what I like about you: your independence, how you don’t care about what people think of you or whether your clothes match.” He paused for a moment. “But I think you should do this. For your parents, and for me. You should consider what your future’s going to be, for everyone involved. For you. It doesn’t mean you can’t do what you want, just that you’ll have to do it on your own time. We all have to make a living somehow.”
He knew what I loved and how to make it seem worthless. Later that night he stole my virginity. I was drunk. His smile convinced me that everything would be okay, even though I knew I didn’t love him and never would.
I called him up to ask if I'd see him later. His work had gotten in the way, again. “I’d love to, baby,” he reassured me, “but I’m supposed to take a client out for dinner. Maybe tomorrow night. I don’t think there’s anything scheduled.” I wanted to take that fucking planner out and shred it, let the pieces fall from the window to the pavement below like shrapnel.
We never talked about moving in together. It wouldn’t have worked. I, not being the kind of girl to charm clients, would have been sitting at home watching the clock, wondering whether his ‘business deal’ constituted the pants I’d have ironed being pulled down by some whore, his ‘transaction’ the money being paid up-front, crumpled wads of cash resting on the scarred dresser. I didn’t need to live with him to worry about that.
I’m shaking. His face, when I did it, was completely calm. He couldn’t have thought I’d know. Ben’s arms were outstretched, about to take me into them. The message he left on my phone earlier was priceless. Trying to sound sincere, he said, “I have to wrap up a few more things. It’s taken longer than I thought, but I think I’ll be out of here in just a little while. Okay? Meet me at our Starbucks, in, say, half an hour. You know what I always order. Love you, sweetie.” It didn’t sound suspicious at all, but because he was too genuinely interested, too sincere, too loving, it had to be fake. An act. It had to be. He couldn’t love me.
It must have been an hour ago, our encounter. Ben jumped out of the cab in front of the coffee place, fifteen minutes late. He shut the cab door and stepped onto the curb. I saw him arrive and went outside, letting the door close behind. He walked up to me, smiling, and it was enough to kill. Ben’s expression, of love, never altered as my arm hurled a grande extra-hot cinnamon latte at his face. He didn’t even have time to realize what had just transpired (and neither did I). It was his drink, and I thought he should have it.
Ben, the scalding-hot coffee dripping from his hair and nose, just stood there. He didn’t even wince. He froze. I would have, too, except suddenly it occurred to me that I’d done something terrible. So I ran away. It was the only thing I could do. I looked back, and he hadn’t moved.
I found a bench, in a small park surrounded on all sides by languorous traffic. The bright red and white lights are still too much for my blurred eyes. I’ve been sitting here for an hour, and I can’t stop myself from thinking. Why the fuck did I do that? He’s the best thing I have, and in a second I threw it all away. He’s the best thing I have? I don’t know what to think anymore. When we met, I didn’t process through what we were doing, whether it was… good for me. It felt right, and that was enough. I was innocent then. And what am I now? Empty.
“Lena.”
I look up. It’s Ben. I don’t say anything.
“Lena, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’m sorry. I thought you were happy.” He pauses. “I’m so sorry. What can do to fix this? Tell me what I’ve done wrong, and I promise you, we can make this work.”
It’s not about fixing it, fuckhead. “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”
He sat down next to me. His feet were tucked beneath the bench, eyes studying his hands. He was visibly hurt (not to mention his red forehead), but seemed more concerned about me than himself.
Ben hadn’t been cheating on me. That much was obvious by now. The look on his face as I threw the cup was the most genuinely loving look I’d ever been given. But why am I not reciprocating, not trusting him?
He looked up and asked, “What is it you need to know?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
“Okay, Lena, you have to be honest with me. I’m doing the best I can right now. I’m no good at being intimate with anyone, and I know you’ve noticed. Work has always been my escape from life. Before you, it was all I had. Hell, you’re the first girl I’ve taken seriously. And very seriously. Lena, I hope you know that I love you.”
I’m feeling sick. Trapped. Nobody told me that with experience comes a certain amount of cynicism. But I look up at him. Ben’s eyes are still the same ones, constant. They’re showing just as much emotion as when he stepped out of that cab. He kisses me on the cheek, holding my shoulder with one hand.
“I want to work this out with you,” he says quietly, “ but I need to know that this is what you want.”
“Yes.”
“Really?” His smile, hesitant but radiant, returned to his face.
“Yes.” I’m… I’m letting go. He’s still the one I fell for at the very beginning, as soon as I met him. No more doubt, no more holding back. I look at him again, as I start to cry - soft tears, warm, cleansing. He leans over and holds me.
“Do you still want coffee?” I ask. He thinks for a moment and then shakes his head. And I laugh. I probably wouldn’t want to risk it, either, if I were him.