Eight Count ✔️

TWO

You know that feeling when you haven't quite gotten over something—someone?

That is me right now. Proved by the clench of my hand and the weight filling my chest. It is certain I haven't forgotten him, what he did. Rather, what he didn't do. Factually, yes, he did nothing, so I should forgive and forget. But, it is also fact that he did nothing, so I should smack the dazed look from his still puppy-like face.

Both are one and the same.

He said he would call me. He didn't. He walked away from the football field, a deflated football in hand. He walked away from me, nose crooked and bleeding after that late summer's eve. He walked away, never came back, never said goodbye, never performed our special handshake–a top secret best friend promise.

I never got to know if his nose was okay, if he was going to make our more than friendship publically official, if he was going to the creek the next evening. Simple worries. 

Dax grins.

He's too energetic. How was I ever friends with this fool? No, he was never like this before. Dax had been a quiet person. He never spoke unless spoken to. He slunk in my shadow. He was my shadow, and I let him stay there, follow my footsteps, become my friend, then my more than friend.

A pang echoes in my chest. I was his voice at times. The times when he wouldn't stand up for himself. Advocating. He had asked me the purpose of it. A form of communication. That was my simple reply. All was simple then.

Until nothing was.

The look in his widened eyes, previously something of shock, transforms. Glee. A gay type of enthusiasm. Elated. Jubilant. Pure joy to see me as if he is a literal puppy, he approaches, excited, bouncy, ears metaphorically flapping and tail wagging.

With no reply from me, Dax seems to absorb more energy from somewhere deep within. "It is you, Olly! I would know that look from anywhere!" His voice comes out in a screech, something no short of a yip a puppy would give a dog twice its size, trying to play or intimidate the giant opponent.

Another foul taste stirs in my mouth, digging deeper.

I hate him.

No, I hate past me.

I hate idiotic past me.

"My name is Dawn. And it's been awful to meet you," I say, deadpan. Dax squirms under the heat of my eyes. The uncomfortable shift is oddly satisfying. To think, I was attempting to calm his younger doppelganger moments ago. "Who do I have the oh-so-sweet displeasure of meeting?"

"Dax. My name is Dax." He seems unconvinced by my act, slanting his eyebrows like a German Shepard puppy would when confused. In another second, Dax frowns, a bit flustered. "I'm sorry... I thought you were someone I used to know" –he scratches his neck, a familiar gesture– "but I guess you're not her. I'll replace your clothes and give back your money for the washer."

A hysterical laugh surfaces in my throat. There is no replacing the dance costume, Dax. Sure, I can replace the workout attire thrown into the mix—the heap of material still in the death machine–but there is no replacing the costume. Not soon at least.

But I have to try.

I need a damn plan.

"Don't worry, I'll figure it out," I mutter in reply.

Gritting my teeth, I yank my soaked athletic wear from the washer, examining the orange splotched damage. Not an article left unharmed. Brilliant.

'Let me help." His voice is guilt-ridden. I don't have to look to know. "Look, I feel guilty."