ROMEO'S HEART

Ethan - Meditation and Shit

I walk into the bookstore, feeling nervous. I have no idea why. It's a bookstore, for Christ's sake. What's the worst that could happen? A towering stack of Jackie Collins collapses and crushes me to death?

Actually, that thought is mortifying. If I go, I really don't want it to be underneath a shitload of 'turgid members' and 'tumescent arousals.' I'd never live my death down. At least let it be Stephen King or Ian Fleming, or something a bit badass.

The store smells musty, but I like it. It's like knowledge, passion, and mold, all wrapped up in one.

I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk through the shelves, looking for the self-help section. I stifle a laugh. 'Self-help'. If only it were that easy. I'm skeptical that anything I find here can actually do me any good, but I figure I owe it to Cassie to give it a go. Hell, I owe it to myself. It's not as though I enjoy being a monumental fuck-up. But at least I recognize I have issues, even if I'm not equipped to do anything about them.

I eventually find three whole bookcases labeled, "Self-help/Self-improvement".
Jesus. The amount of titles is staggering. "Be a Better You", "Healing with Angels", "Cleanse Your Chakras", "The Life You Were Born to Live", "Heal Your Life", "Top Tips for a Fulfilling Life", "The Secret", "Embrace Your Personal Power", "Living a Powerful Life."

Fuck me.

I look around, embarrassed to even be considering these books. I feel like I have a giant neon sign above my head advertising what a loser I am. Then I realize I'm the idiot who fucked things up with the most incredible woman I've ever met, so yeah. I'm not just a loser. I'm a platinum-plated, first-class loser. If these books can help, I should be damn grateful.

I pull the shabby cocktail napkin out of my pocket and scan the titles. "Living in the Moment", "Past Mistakes, Future Success," and "Reprogram Your Stress". I find them all within a few minutes, and then head up to the counter to pay while giving the 'romance' aisle a wide berth just in case there's any homicidal erotica.

When I step back out onto the sidewalk, I breathe a sigh of relief. Mission accomplished.

Now, let's see if these books live up to their hype.
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...
...

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.

"Play that funky music, white boy..."

My tension is rising, but I'm trying to stay calm.

"Play that funky music riiiiiiiiiiight!"

Breathe in, breath out. I float like a feather on the wind.

"Play that funky myooseec whaht boiiiii."

Jesus Christ.

"Lay down that booogieeee and play that funky music 'til you die! 'Til you diiiiie!"

I storm over to my bedroom door and wrench it open. "For shit's sake, Elissa, would you shut the fuck up?! I'm trying to fucking meditate here!"

Elissa freezes mid-boogie and pulls out her ear-buds. "Um, hate to burst your bubble, bro, but you're doing it wrong. It's supposed to make you calmer, not grumpier."

After slamming the door, I flop onto my bed. This meditating bullshit is harder than it seems.

I throw my arm over my eyes and try to steady my breathing. After about ten minutes, I'm calm. Ish.

I miss Cassie. I want to call her, but we don't do that. We should, but we don't. Since we shared mind-blowing sex after our impromptu movie night, she's been avoiding me, and I'm seriously craving her. I feel like I'm about to climb the walls.