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DECEMBER 23, 1971
Usually reliving memories was bittersweet, but when it's about him all I remember is bitter. When you get your heart broken for the first time it's not bittersweet. You think over the good memories and just remember how they must have actually felt. You can't help but think that the feeling was never mutual in the good times. It taints the good memories and leaves you with the loathing feeling of yourself for being so naive. It scares the shit out of you that it's gonna happen again.
So here I am, like the petty person I am. Writing poems about him for class that my professor will enter into a competition to get published.
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I read it over again and cringed. I've always been complimented on my writing, but reading it over always made me cringe. And honestly, the feeling I still got from the breakup was almost gone. I just needed something for more inspiration.
The door slammed close, making me jump and turn my head to see Roger walk in with an annoyed expression. I only had classes today, and after Christmas I was starting to work at a high-end café, so I've been at home for a while. Roger, on the other hand, had been to morning classes and work with Freddie.
Roger plopped down on the opposite end of the couch and groaned.
"So how was your day?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Shite. Fred sold my favorite jacket. The wanker's been stealing my clothes he doesn't like and selling them." I stifled a laugh and brought my knees up to my chest. I couldn't help but feel a longing for a flamboyant friend like Freddie. "What about you?"
"Fine. I've just been doing homework." I held up my notebook and he nodded, laying his head against the arm rest of the sofa. "You don't mind if I practice dancing for a bit, right?" I asked, getting off the couch, throwing my closed notebook on the coffee table. Roger lifted his head up and gave me an open mouthed smirk.
"I don't mind one bit."
I was already in comfortable clothes so I didn't have to change. I moved the coffee table to the wall like I did every time I practiced. Our next performance, or basically test, for my dance class would be on Latin dancing. I moved my hips, while practicing the footwork for the salsa. I usually wasn't nervous for our dance assessments, but considering my teacher was Latin, I need this to be perfect. I continued to practice, pretending I was holding onto a partner with my arms. I kept making minor mistakes due to the eyes I could feel peering into me. I looked at Roger to see him lazily slumped on the couch, an arm resting on the armrest and the other rested on his leg. He wore a faint smile, his eyes never leaving my body until I turned around and his eyes met mine.
