ETHEREAL

CHAPTER 6

Unfortunately, I'm over an hour late to hang out with Damien the following Friday. I felt like I was being pulled in a million directions at once, as my parents insisted that I couldn't go anywhere until I finished my application to go back to school, plus I had to drive my mom to Target. Sometimes, it feels like my life doesn't belong to myself. I call Damien and he answers on the fourth ring.

Feeling rushed, I exclaim, "Hey! Um, I'm so sorry that I'm so late - I'm going to the library to pick up our movie now, I -"

He interrupts me and drawls, "It's cool... I made a new friend, Travi, when I was waiting outside for you. I can't believe that I never met him before now; he lives in the condo above mine."

My stomach drops. "You waited outside for me?"

"Yeah, but it's cool. Come over!" We hang up, and I feel absolutely terrible that I'm late. I dash into the library, pluck the American Psycho DVD off the shelf, and jump back in my car, only to hit the evening traffic. "UGHHHHHHH," I turn up my music and wait.

I call Damien to let him know that I'm outside and he lets me in, and envelopes me into a hug. "What is that smell?" He smells like skunk mixed with Dolce & Gabbana "The One" cologne.

He replies, "Have you ever smoked before?"

"No, my aunt died from smoking," and he immediately bursts out laughing. "That's not funny! Why are you laughing?!" I snap.

He drags me towards his room, instead of the living room where we hung out before. "I didn't mean cigarettes," he smirks. His mischievous smirk is really starting to wear on me. "Sorry for the mess," he slowly drawls and plops himself down on his queen-size bed that is outfitted with black satin sheets sans comforter nor blanket. He speaks as languidly as he walks - sure of himself, calculated and full of measured swagger, but epically slow and languorous... like he is aware of how hot he is, and he is apathetic to the world.

The Christmas lights leisurely dance around the ceiling. He has a collage of girls - models that were cut out from magazines on one wall. The floor is absolutely covered in junk. I imagine this is what it would look like if you would steal half a junkyard and dump it wildly on the floor.

There are: weights, a guitar, miscellaneous trash, soda cans, paper plates with food stuck to them, printed out tabs for the guitar, empty liquor bottles, DVDs, video games, guitar picks, boxes of several kinds of cigarettes ranging from menthol to regular, clothes, game controllers, textbooks, and then more clothes overflowing from the walk-in closet. His room is larger than the main floor of my shitty townhouse. How lucky it would be to have my own walk-in closet and bathroom, I think to myself. I don't think he has cleaned his bathroom, or even vacuumed in probably months or years.

I try to hide my disdain, and gingerly step over the trash, trying not to trip, and I also plop down on the bed next to him, and cheerily say, "So, what do you do when you're not stalking me?" It obviously doesn't involve any type of cleaning or organizing.

Damien looks relieved that I'm not going to comment on how he lives in squalor, or how he trashed a perfectly nice bedroom and bathroom. "Uh, nothing. I play guitar sometimes. Play video games. I quit my job at Home Depot." He looks sheepish and stoned.

"Why did you quit?"

I notice that these sheets don't look exactly clean, either, with stray food stains, and I quell the urge to offer to help him clean this dump.

"Umm... my ex worked there, too."

"Oh... that's awkward. Why did you guys break up?"

He stares at me. "You ask a lot of questions."

I look away at the large flatscreen that is currently turned off, and wonder what it is like to have a tv in your bedroom, as I've never had one, never even owned a flatscreen, and if he paid for all of this stuff, or if someone else did.

Damien leans back against the wall, stares at his blinking Christmas lights, and shrewdly spits, "She was a cheating whore," and he launches into a diatribe about how crazy she is, and I only half-listen. I wish that I had never asked. I almost wish that I wasn't here, but I have some sympathy for him, even though it is hard to judge when I hear only half of the story.

"My ex-boyfriend was crazy, too... he hated that I like to wear make-up. He hated that I wanted to have friends. I broke up with him for being too controlling."

Damien looks like he swallowed something sour, or like he doesn't even care about what I just said, and he simply, bluntly replies, "Yeah. So, I lost my wallet today."

My head snaps to the side, to look at him, "You lost your wallet today?! Like your driver's license and everything?!"

He nods and I notice how red his eyes are.

"Um, didn't you say you met someone new today?"

"Yeah, Travi, he's cool. He shared his weed with me. It wasn't him," he sounds positively sure.

"Oh, well... I hope that you find it," I weakly offer, and I feel like it isn't enough, but he is too high to actually carry on a conversation in which we could try to retrace his steps and think of possibilities.

"Let's watch the movie," Damien abruptly states.

The movie ends, and I leave without kissing him, although I think about his pouty lips pressed to mine, sucking on his tongue with his hands gripping my butt and my arms locked around his neck; wildly, recklessly, we would be together, forever. He walks me to my car, then before I drive away, I look back to see his black low-top Vans and ripped, medium blue skinny jeans languidly skipping over several steps to presumably Travi's apartment.

I spend the whole drive home wondering what I just got myself into.