2.0 The Chronicles of Us - Shame & Blame

Chapter twenty-two

•★ Tex ★•

Last night went well, I think. It was fun and for once, I wasn't the one causing shit. Okay, I was still involved, but it wasn't my fault. The fact that it didn't throw me in some self-loathing spiral must be progress, I suppose. Yeah, I don't feel too bad. More balanced.

Apart from that ache in my chest, of course. I shouldn't have rejected that girl. She had everything—cute face, interest in music, piercings and an admirable wardrobe. We could've been a great match. So why am I still hung up on a girl who likes disco, tastes like sugar and was born with a bar of soap in her mouth? The thought of one those sweet kisses brings a wistful flutter to my chest. This constant state of feeling homesick has to lessen at some point. Don't they say it takes as much as time as the relationship lasted to get over someone? If that's true, I'm getting real close to finally being free.

Yeah, right.

As if, somehow, two weeks, four days and about ten hours from now, my love for Ellie will magically disappear. Fat change of that happening. I swear, this heartbreak is a relentless bitch. Perhaps, I should just accept that the ghost of her will always haunt my heart.

With a cigarette between my lips, I take a look at my surroundings. Tourists crowd the street and locals try to avoid them. Locals are easy to spot. They don't gape around or stop on the middle of the damn curb to take a picture of something stupid like a crooked tile. No, they simply push through the sea of people to get where they're going.

Work?

A date, maybe?

Uhg.

This was a bad idea. I should've gone home right after I woke this morning. That's what I promised Roy, anyway. Since he wouldn't let me ride my bike back and I didn't want to leave it behind, we settled on a hotel. I already checked out, but my bag is still at the lobby. For some dumb reason, I thought a stroll through San Francisco would be nice. Stupid decision, of course. I hate people, unless they're cheering for me. Which doesn't make any sense because I'm not superficial. If anything, I'm an oxy-fucking-moron.

Leave the labelling to Doc.

Ellie would've liked coming here for a day trip. The lively ambiance, the people-watching, she enjoys those kinda things. I never cared for it. Never even noticed it. Ellie did, and if she was happy, I was happy. It was as simple as that. Would she still have loved me if I had done things with her like sightseeing and shit? I could've held her hand while she dragged me along with that childlike wonder in her eyes. I could've been a better boyfriend to her. Goddammit. All these fucking 'could haves' aren't doing me any good.

Since there's no trash can nearby, I pinch off the burning end of my cigarette and stuff the filter in my pocket. When I cross the street to head back to the hotel, something catches my attention. From where I'm standing, only half of a black and white photo is visible.

Is that a bird?

Art ain't my thing. Sure, I like Dali, but that has more to do with his wicked stache and pet anteater than his work. On the other hand, I have nothing to do at the moment. A little look-see won't hurt.

The gallery isn't big, so I find the pictures I'm looking for easily enough. Four photos hang on immaculately white room dividers, all facing each other. I step in the middle and observe them one by one. 

The first one shows a one-legged pigeon pecking at some crumbs while a homeless person lies passed out on the street behind it. The artist must've lain flat on the ground to take this picture. 

Number two is just as gritty. A white dove grooms its smudged feathers, sitting on a dimly lit streetlight. Underneath it, a weathered woman with hooker-heels higher than a skyscraper lights the cigarette she has pressed between her thin lips.