Kiss Me {SE One shot competition, entry #2}

Kiss Me

“You’re a Goddamn screw up, Jensen. Can’t you do anything right in your life?”

Well, maybe if you leave me to do what I want to, I might not screw it up.

“You’re careless and irresponsible. I can’t believe we let you live on your own.”

Wow, mother. I could feel the love. Really, keep it coming. 

“Out of all the things that you have done, this has got to be the stupidest yet.”

Yeah, you said that the last time, too. And the time before that. And the time before that.

“Stupid people. Everyone wants me to be perfect.” I scoffed, kicking a pebble with my foot, sending it flying a few feet away.

“Why can’t you be like your brother?”

Because my brother knows what he wants, because he’s his own person and I’m mine. Maybe I don’t want to be like my brother. Isn’t that an enough reason?

I continued walking down the empty, dark streets of Marseille, France, my hands tucked in the pockets of my coat. 

My name is Harry Jensen, and I’m a class-A screw up.

No, I didn’t lose myself in drugs or alcoholism; I just have the tendency to screw up everything I do.

For example, I dated a hooker for a short period of time. She left me for a more “decent” man. The irony, I know, right? Truth be told, the only thing I did to screw up that relationship was telling her to quit her job, and then, suddenly, I’m the bad guy.

Another example, I decided it would be a good idea to return home for Christmas while I was drunk off my ass. I had a fight with a McDonald’s statue, and the cops returned me handcuffed to my house. Mom’s face was priceless. I would have laughed if I weren’t so petrified of being castrated.

And the last thing I did, which was so stupid, I admit, was dropping out of college. The material were just too much for me to handle, and I couldn’t juggle my job and my studies. I had a decent job, and I lived in a good apartment, college just seemed useless to me back then. Now, though, I regret it. I really wish I hadn’t done what I did.

So this is it, my life as a screw up, or as my mother likes to call me, “An irresponsible, careless baboon.”

The sign of the bar shone brightly in my peripheral vision as I walked around the curb. 24/7, it says. Fortunately, I thought. I really needed a drink or two.

Pushing the double door with both of my cold hands, I walked into the dimly lit bar. A couple of people were sat here and there on the randomly scattered tables around the small room, and a bar stood at the far end. 

I took a seat on a stool by the bar. A moment later, a female bartender walked towards me.

“What can I help you with, grumpy?” She asked, her French accent weighing down her words. That wasn’t the first time I came here; my visits were too often, I kind of became friends with the bartender. 

I saw my reflection in the glass of the vodka bottle sitting on the bar in front of me. I had a scowl on my face, my eyebrows furrowed together, and the crinkles around my eyes more evident than usual. 

I relaxed my face and looked up at her.

“A scotch, please,” I mumbled. “Make it a double.” 

“What’s the problem now?” Amelia, the bartender, asked.

“Same old, same old.” I shrugged.