Snakes & Scoundrels

41: six minutes

(trigger warnings: attempted rape & assault, verbal abuse, violence)

. . .

I find it arrantly weird that a text message can create the kind of whisks in my body that alcohol has proven to drown. Re-reading the same single-line text doesn't change or abate the airborne butterflies, especially after Thanksgiving last night. 

I don't know what Carol had in her mind when she caked all the remaining films of my Polaroid but holy cow that old woman has a knack for old-fangled photography. The more I looked at the bunch of Polaroids scrapbooked in the vintage aesthetic vibe, the more I was reminded of the last scene of Avengers Endgame—Steve Rogers and Peggy's far-famed dance scene. 

It's embarrassing how vulnerable and soft I am when I look at him. If this was how we looked to the outside world when we danced, I understand all the chemistry hype that's been rumored around Ravenford regarding the two play leads. 

But most of all, if I had to define my perfect kind of date, then last night would be it. Comfortable sweats, thick long socks, face void of makeup, and not stressing about dressing up. No drives, no faraway fancy restaurants, and no worries of reading a hundred dishes on the menu. Yesterday was my kind of perfect. Scrabble in my cozy lighted living room, pasta sided with wine and tart, cotton candy ice cream to top it all off with half-intelligent and half-bullshit banters. 

There's something that escalates the persona of a guy when very old people or very young people adore him. Toddlers and elders, as I believe, are the shadow of innocence. They also are human fake personality detectors. It's underrated how much their intuitions turn out right. But when Carol danced with Rainer last night, all I saw in her eyes was pure love for him. The way she pecked his cheek, the way she teased him, their hushed conversations secreted even from me, and how I caught him laying his head on her lap and getting head-patted to sleep. 

But above all, he was the only person who noticed the bruise on the side of my head. 

It was the first time in my entire life that I was proud of my decision. I don't know what Rainer had in mind during the boot camp but my decision of letting him in was absolutely right. He was exactly everything I wanted in a man. Well, except for the ploy for revenge and the public humiliation. On a scale of ten, he was a one...but there was just something about him. 

Something that made me re-read his message for the hundredth time now. 

𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫
I'll be there in six minutes. 

I skim through the clock. This message came in five minutes ago. Knowing his love and obsession for punctuality, I know that when he says six minutes, it's going to be six minutes on the dot. So for the remaining minute, I stare at the ticking seconds on my clock, counting along with it. 

At the strike of three seconds past the sixth minute, the doorbell chimes. I try my best to fetter the stretching smile on my face as I shut my Polaroid book and dump it in the top drawer of my cabinet. Making sure I've left no hint of my bubbled-over feelings in my room, I dash down the staircase. 

I want to overtake Nina and open the door myself, but that would make my excitement too obvious. And not to mention, confusing. So instead, I pretend as if the throw-on blanket on the couch needs re-setting and begin to align it properly. 

Nina opens the door and my heart awaits—for his voice, for his cologne, for his sight—but the entire excitement drops when she says, "Good evening, Mr. Hunt." 

The speed of my heart transitions from excitement to irk. I turn around and Collin steps inside, taking off his coat and pinning it up on the hangers. "Good evening, Nina." He tells her and then his eyes find me. All the butterflies have morphed into bloodthirsty vultures. "Hi." He says to me.