by J. Nathan
Since moving in three years ago, it had been an ordinary picnic table. But for the last four days, it had become the very bane of my existence. Maybe not the actual piece of lawn furniture, but the unfamiliar girl seated on top of it. The one with her head buried in her knees and the coffee-colored waves of hair spilling over her body, bawling her eyes out.
Four days ago, she rolled into the parking lot in a killer black BMW sports edition. She lugged an oversized brand-name suitcase up the flight of stairs to the second floor, clearly not realizing the building had an elevator.
From my peephole, I watched her pull the suitcase down the carpeted hallway and approach the door diagonal to mine. Katherine, the owner of the building and a total babe for an older chick, greeted her with a sympathetic smile before stepping aside to let her in. Though they didn’t hug, the girl was obviously staying with her, and not renting an apartment.
Sure, I looked like a creepy stalker staring out my second floor window, but I wasn’t. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. I just couldn’t ignore the fact that the girl hadn’t stopped crying in four days. Nor the fact that I felt like shit for not going down to check on her.
Don’t get me wrong. My apartment was a revolving door of one-night stands, each convinced they’d be the one to change my ways. And never once did I feel bad for tossing them out after I screwed them. They knew exactly what they were getting when they agreed to go home with me.
I didn’t do relationships. Too much trouble. I didn’t care about other people’s problems. Got enough of my own. And I didn’t do kindness to strangers. Strangers didn’t care about me.
Bottom line. I kept people at arm’s length.
A shrink would attribute my aversion to relationships to the trauma I suffered when I was ten. But I’d been left to self-diagnose since I never saw a shrink. Bouncing around foster homes left little time for that. And truthfully, I wanted no part of baring my soul to some stranger. Fuck that.
If I learned one thing from my messed up life, it was that you didn’t let people in, and you didn’t let your emotions out. You couldn’t. I wondered if I even had any. Emotions that is. Because if you asked me, life had hardened me beyond repair.
And just because I felt like a total dick watching the girl on the picnic table bawl her eyes out, it didn’t mean I’d gone soft. Not by a long shot.
Maybe it was her shoulder-shaking sobs that kept my feet firmly planted by the window. Maybe it was the fact that she didn’t seem much younger than me. Nineteen. Maybe twenty. Or perhaps it was the way her body scrunched into a ball that made her appear so small. So fragile. So broken. Like she needed someone to take care of her.
Jesus Christ. Listen to me.
I was one step away from playing sappy love songs and watching fucking chick flicks. I dragged my fingers through my hair and drew a deep breath. I needed to get the hell away from the window.
