All That I Need Is That Crazy Feeling

The Future Is (Un)Certain.

            

"HEY! Where do you think you're going, you ass?" I couldn't help but chuckle at the lameness of your insult. What were you, ten? But your voice felt serious. I had barely made it down those four flights of stairs in a haze, all these thoughts of you, of us, running wildly through my dizzy mind.

I turned around and there you were, standing in just an oversized red jumper and black leggings like so many times before, the front door to your apartment block wide open. I had that magazine headline too fresh in my mind, and knew you should avoid being seen with me in front of your building -especially if there was a possibility of us causing a scene- so I walked towards you, grabbed your arm and pushed you back inside. Your almond eyes widened, searching mine, and I knew that you were thinking I was about to take advantage of this: we both knew if I pushed your back against the wall and manoeuvred my body so that I was up against you, you would let me kiss you if I wanted. And for the first time the thought of this didn't make me feel better, but worthless. What the fuck had I been doing? Then again, the last 12 hours had been nothing like what I'd imagined, so I guessed perhaps your best friend had been right: we couldn't help ourselves, and there was nothing fine with that.

I quickly let go of you and stepped back, shaking my head. You stayed there, hunched against the wall, looking at me, your eyes full of questions. I tried to gather my thoughts. Last night, before anything had happened, it had felt like taking a step forward, or at least a step away from what we had become. The fact that we'd been able to simply talk, without glaring, without shouting, had felt so good. In retrospect, now I realised that, while we talked last night, I thought that perhaps we could manage a cordial relationship. I'd missed discussing music with you, so maybe, if I stopped being destructive... Maybe we could start to share our music again? But then I'd gone and ruined it by sleeping with you and then walking out that door before you could even wake up. Even I was ashamed of my behaviour, I didn't blame your best friend for being irate.

"I can't have you yelling at me in the middle of the street; I can't afford to have another scandal hit the tabloids, and neither can you, especially now..." I didn't mean to, but my voice ended up sounding spiteful, and I felt a pang in my chest when I saw you look down at your bare feet, biting your lip. I wanted to hit myself- so much for cordiality. I knew what must be going through your head then- you were remembering how hard our break-up had hit the tabloids. We never announced it officially. I didn't want anything to do with you, but neither one of us wanted to be accused of forcing the other to 'wear the grey tracksuit', as the media had often joked when we were together. It had just happened. One morning, a couple of weeks after I left, I received a text from my best friend which read, "it's out". I kept away, still, hidden in the mountains, and for me that had been it. What I didn't realise until I came out of hiding, months later, was how hard those weeks had been on you. I was nowhere to be found, so the media had focused on you. And even I hated myself then for inadvertently putting you in the spotlight, giving you that stupid grey tracksuit.

"Alfred..." I closed my eyes. I had always loved how my name sounded coming out of your mouth, how perfectly you accentuated that D at the end. "Do you think I am that much of a cheater, that I wouldn't know it was you who stayed with me last night...?" Your voice was cold. "Is that what you take me for, now? I was-, I mean, I didn't drink that much, you know..." You sighed, and then muttered, "and I would recognise your smell anytime..."

I gulped as those words hit me, even if you were rolling your eyes as if having my smell on your bedsheets was a bother. You had always claimed you loved my smell. I bit my lip and shook my head. You were still not looking at me, but rather at a point a couple of inches over my left shoulder.

I was trying not to get exasperated with the situation. You had never followed me out of the apartment before. You had let me leave. Yet here you were now. And I wasn't sure what to expect. You were never the type to scream someone out of their lives. But, I'd never seen you face anything like what I had been putting you through. So, before I could stop myself, I said, "well, aren't you going to shout at me?" You met my eyes then, and I realised my comment had been a mistake. The kindness I'd seen in your eyes last night as we discussed your latest songs was gone. I sighed. I should have just said goodbye and left.