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21: Remember Freya

                        21: Remember Freya

            Dear Diary,

            All of the guys I have ever expressed an interest in have been left handed. I think this is a coincidence, I like to think it is, but I know it to be purposeful. Grant is right handed, a walking example of what not to go for in guys. Adrienne is gone, Grant is now free game, a pawn in a master plan I am still perfecting. I noticed this when I first ever saw him pick up a pen, hunched over his desk in his room, finishing an essay due the day afterwards.

            He finds my presence too demanding, I have noticed. The ease Adrienne has talked about so much is nowhere to be found whenever it’s just the two of us. He insists on playing music when we’re together, as though that will distract us from the silence we have found ourselves in. He is not the great mystery he was painted out to be. His left hand clenches subconsciously as he writes, scrawling lines and lines of notes, as though he can’t just type up a paper and email it to himself. Grant is ridiculously old-fashioned in that way, I have noticed; he likes to hold the door for me, give me his elbow when we’re in public, and hold my chair out for me before I can take a seat. I am not the gentleman type.

            His room is boring, nothing but posters of rock bands and a picture of him and his cousin on his bedside table. I have asked for her name once, he told me Freya, I didn’t ask for more details. I am wearing a short skirt, and a tight shirt, and he is not interested in me. If I hadn’t already heard Adrienne’s stories of Grant’s sexual prowess, then I’d believe him to be asexual, but I know that is not the case. I don’t know if I’ve ever been called a repellent, my talent is seduction, it is the one basis I am comfortable in, and Grant is immune.

            I am rubbing his shoulders when I realise he is right handed, and everything fits into place. “Devin,” his voice is tense, cold, and the rigidness of his spine does nothing to melt the icy atmosphere in his room. He leans forward in his chair, away from my touch, and I suspect that I disgust him. Everything I stand for must make his insides coil in disgust, the idea of betraying Adrienne every time it is required of him to kiss me must kill him inside. I love this, though, for I have reminded him one too many times that it is because of Adrienne we are in this situation. He can hate me all he wants, but I know it is misdirected as I am nothing more than a current player in Adrienne’s schemes which are on hold. “I’m busy.”

            “You’re always busy,” I’m pouting, I know it annoys him when I act like a spoilt bitch. Stupid ugly bitch he has called me once, slurs on the tip of his tongue. He hates that I remember that, that I throw it back in his face time and time again. “You always made time for Adrienne.”

            “Because I could look Adrienne in the face and not feel like slitting my throat. You make me sick, Devin, you know that.”

            “That’s not very nice,” I have never gotten angry with Grant, which only proves to make him angrier. I rub his shoulders, nails pinching, “We’re doing this for Adrienne, remember. Don’t disappoint her.”

            “I haven’t forgotten,” he snaps, “you wouldn’t dare let me forget. I’m busy, Devin, go away.”

            “We have dinner tonight. Double date, remember? With Idris.”

            I have concluded that my type is specific, something which must be tested, and can’t be faked: left handed males. They understand me, they do not tense at my touch, flinch at my smiles, or cringe when I enter a room. Grant is everything I could possibly want to avoid, Adrienne knew this well enough, but she has always been a sadistic little cunt, but it’s such a shame is unable to watch the show.