Mess You Made

24.

Malibu.

Giselle has two acts. About fifty minutes each. A romantic ballet, one of the more tragic ones but I preferred those ones. As I'm cleaning glasses, I think about that stage the way you think about an angel you might have lost, and a fallen friend. She's still there somewhere but she's not with me anymore. No longer holding my hand. A fond missing. Always there, sometimes more than others.

That's what I thought I'd end up being if I allowed myself some delusion. Prima ballerina one day. Costume designer for the ballet's. Anything to do with it because ballet was the only place I ever imagined being at peace.

But now that old friend of mine is wishing me well and I'm dying to go back to her but the road between us is cracked. Sunken in. Long lost. I can barely even see her in the distance anymore — and the thought's depressing as fuck so I look back down to my phone, my forearms resting on the bar since it's a quiet night.

Miguel: your uncle's benched me and he's made me do so many fucking layups my legs are damn near dead. it's all your fault.

I purse my lips left and right.

It's difficult to stop thinking about him after last night.

Bad. I understand that's bad and something deep inside me is screaming about the warning signs of someone lingering in my mind. I've tried, repeatedly, to forsake any thought of him and to curb him into a corner of my mind. My head keeps falling back to him, regardless. To me sat on that island and him in front of me and me on his back and all the things he does, subtly, that make it impossible to stop thinking about him.

If I think about it truly, I don't think I've ever stayed a night at a boy's place without there being some sort of sexual obligation or relation. It's alien. Strange. And we did nothing, really, except eat leftovers and find that revelation about his philosophies which I never imagined would be the case if Miguel Hernandez took me home.

If this is a game he's playing, which I still want to believe, he's doing such a good job. Roping a girl in. He's masterful. Because I've been cleaning glasses left and right and I'll get small flashes of what his body felt like around me in the morning — which shouldn't feel so abstract, or unfamiliar and yet it does. It feels new in an unfathomable way. Distinctive from anyone else.

It feels like I want to slap myself in the face.

The current situation is that he won't leave me alone. I also keep texting back.

Me: he isn't my blood uncle. how's that my fault?

Miguel: yeah, well, your not-blood-uncle thinks i banged you in the back of Cherry and he's making me pay for it. can you fix it?

He's always been the protective sort. A lot like papai. The thought of him tormenting Miguel is actually quite amusing.

Me : what am i meant to do?

Miguel: shoulders get so sore after practice.

Me: okay?

Miguel: kiss them better.

Me: it's like you're on constant viagra. stop texting me. i need to go.

Miguel: what, why?

Me: some of us are employed. ever heard of the word?

Miguel: this is my job.
wait, i sent that and realised how assholey that sounds compared to your shifts at that bar.
can i take that back?
ah fuck, come back. your jobs a lot shittier and harder and worse than mine. i admire your service. genuinely.
yeah, you're gone.