Forbidden Extras

Promenade

I blink a few times before carefully speaking into the phone hoping that I didn't hear him right. I guess I should have expected this since we are over an hour late, but I ask anyway, "What do you mean you're not going to prom?"

Harris sighs on the other end, "I thought we discussed this before, love. I don't believe in prom."

I don't know whether I want to scoff at what he just said or his fake British accent. Lately he's been trying it out because he thinks it makes him seem more professional. "What do you mean you don't believe in prom?"

"I mean that I don't want to support an event that celebrates getting freaky with classmates on a dance floor, underage drinking, and having sex. That's just not my style," he pauses. "You didn't want to go, did you? Surely you're not the type to be involved in that."

Oh but I am. I have envisioned this night since I was a little girl. I use to sit around in my room with Sara looking at prom dress magazines planning on what to wear. I daydreamed about spinning around with the man I love under a starry sky laughing the entire time. I wanted this night, and I still do.

I fiddle with the hem of my lace cream colored dress. It was worth my entire paycheck, but I bought it anyway because it made me feel beautiful. On top of that I spent nearly three hours trying to perfect my makeup, something I've never done in my entire life. But now all that work is going to waste because my boyfriend is an ass. I let out a long sigh feeling defeated, "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. Do you want to just come over and hang out instead?"

"Mmm, I'd love to but I'm in one of my painting moods," he exclaims. "You know how those are a rarity now. I wouldn't want it to go to waste."

In the beginning of our relationship I thought his "painting moods" were sort of cool. He would lock himself in his room for days and wouldn't come out until he made something close to what he considers a masterpiece. Of course he would throw it out days later because nothing was ever good enough. However the moments leading up to it had intrigued me because he made it like an event. Now, not so intriguing.

"Sure. We can just hang out some other time," I try to sound cheerful. "Well I hope everything goes well, babe."

He groans, "Please don't call me 'babe'. That's such a derogatory term."

A blush spread across my cheeks. "Sorry. I thought I would just . . . try it out."

"Well I suppose it was a valiant effort but that's just not how our relationship is. We are much deeper than that. You know that, don't you? From the very beginning it was like our souls were connected. You the poet and I the painter, we are meant to be. It's as if the heavens above hand selected us to be together and we are the . . ." I hold the phone away from my ear to ignore whatever bullshit he was about to spew.

It's been like this a lot lately. I would try to work on our obviously failing relationship by bonding with him but he would try to sweep it under a rug, masking it with sappy compliments. It hasn't been working in our favor but every time I bring it up he just compliments me some more. But I know that buttering me up isn't going to save our relationship, working on it will. And so far it's just me doing the work.

When the sound of his voice died down on the phone I put it back up to my ear to go through my same spiel. "That's was beautiful Harris, thank you so much. I could listen to it all day, but I'm getting tired. I'm going to call it a night."

"Okay, my love. I hope you sleep well. I hope your dreams are painted with visions of our future and all the golden--"

"Night, Harris," I press the 'END' button and throw my phone on the table before falling back on the couch with a huff.