Carmine
- 2 years ago
- 22
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Be Mine free porn video
“It’s not you. Honestly, Harper. It’s completely me.”
Our waitress awkwardly hovered over us, balancing our dinners. The poor girl looked extremely uncomfortable.
I wondered if Glenn thought the cliche sounded better if he slipped in “honestly” and my name. Like I wouldn’t care he was dumping me on New Year’s Eve, that I would have to ring in the new year utterly alone, that I wouldn’t be heartbroken I would have to spend another Valentine’s Day alone.
“What does that even mean? If you’re breaking up with me, it has to be me.”
The restaurant was supremely busy, and though the waitress—Christie, I think she said—didn’t want to step on the minefield that was our dinner table, she had no choice. She plopped down our plates with a half-hearted “enjoy” and scurried off.
Glenn sighed and pressed back against his chair, flicking his napkin across his lap. He ordered chicken parm ALL THE TIME. He calmly cut a piece of chicken which I hoped he fucking choked on.
“Please. Let’s not make this harder than it already is. I’m just not ready to be in a relationship right now. You have your priorities, and right now so do I.”
I watched him eat his chicken, closing his eyes at the taste, and realized what a total dickhead he was.
“You’re fucking someone else, aren’t you?”
Guess what? He did choke on his chicken.
“No—you’re kidding!” My best friend Anna was frozen with a piece of salad halfway up to her mouth.
“Unfortunately, I’m not. He broke up with me New Year’s Eve at dinner.”
“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” Finally she moved again which made me feel better; Anna at rest is an alarming thing to behold. “You could have come to my place. Andy and I watched Ryan Seacrest and Fergie be freakish robots all night.”
My soup burned my tongue and I cursed, asking the universe why everything bad happened to me.
“I didn’t want to intrude. It was your first New Year’s as a married couple!”
She rolled her eyes. “It was totally boring. Andrew drank beer all night and passed out twenty minutes before the ball dropped. He’s lucky I love him.”
I smiled and gently spooned some more soup into my mouth. “Well, all I know is I have the shittiest luck with men.”
Five seconds later something ice cold slammed into my back, running down to the crease of my ass. I shrieked. Slowly I turned and spotted the clumsy busboy who dropped an entire tray of drinks all over me. He apologized profusely; I just nodded. He threw some napkins at me and I tried to dry off, while simultaneously blushing under the penetrating gaze of everyone at the cafe.
Anna snorted into her iced tea. “Sorry. It’s just that ... Sweetheart. You have the shittiest luck, period.”
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I said, shuddering at the ice that was still swimming down my spine.
I didn’t always have the worst luck. I used to have amazing luck. I graduated college early and became an assistant to one of the top publishing agents in the industry. He was handsome and successful; of course we began dating right away. A year later he asked me to marry him. Everything was picturesque and lovely until the day I came home and caught him fucking Phyllis, one of his authors, who was a mega-bitch and old enough to be his mother.
Naturally my self esteem took a whopping hit. I quit, letting the asshole affect not only my personal life, but my professional life, as well.
Two years later I was beyond damaged, working in a tiny bookshop that no one ever went into and only stayed open because Mabel, the crazy lady who owned it, was rich and refused to close the family business.
Obviously, things weren’t going well for me. And it was going to be Valentine’s Day in a flash and I had a particular sensitivity about that date. It wasn’t that I bought into the sappy consumerism or the societal pressure to “have someone”; it was my parents’ wedding anniversary. They had such a perfect marriage and I wanted that, too. Every Valentine’s Day I spent alone reinforced my belief that maybe I wouldn’t have the chance to be happy, after all.
Even when I was with George, the fabulous literary agent, he had to fly to California to work with an author on our Valentine’s Day.
Typical. It was probably to see Phyllis.
So here I was, a few days after a traumatically unhappy New Year’s, wiping ice off my back and wishing away the next few months. Stores and restaurants glued faded red and pink hearts on their walls. Valentine’s Day had already soaked the city with forced romance and sad desperation.
Something needed to change. I couldn’t go on like this, one door after another slamming in my face. It was time to change things up.
Two weeks later I was working, mindlessly shelving books people would probably never read. Per usual, I was feeling sorry for myself.
“You should go see my therapist.”
I paused my restocking of Pablo Neruda, the poet who always sold out this time of year. Even Mabel’s shop was frequented by lovestruck hipsters who quoted Neruda incorrectly as they sipped on their nonfat caramel lattes.
“Excuse me?”
Mabel applied another ring of blue eyeliner. It caught unflatteringly in all of her wrinkles, and it really wasn’t the right color for her, but I didn’t dare say anything. The last time I tried to suggest Mabel change her appearance—she dyed her hair purple—she screamed at me and threatened to make me do the Sunday kiddie readings with Frank. Frank was Mabel’s only other employee. He wore the same shirt every shift and perpetually had a booger hanging from his right nostril.
“Well, you’re always complaining about being a single mess. You should go see a shrink and talk about it to her.”
“Thanks, Mabel, but I don’t think I’ve reached the level that I need professional help yet.”
She gave me one of her long-suffering looks. It would have been scary (considering her threats to make me work in close quarters with Frank) but her heavily made up face and the feather she wore in her hair made it too ridiculous.
“Not everyone who goes to see a psychologist is a lunatic, Harper, and I would have thought you were above that stigma.”
Sighing, I put another collection of Pablo’s work on the shelf. “Sorry, it’s not that. I just don’t think I want anyone in my head.”
“And that’s why you’re single.”
“Mabel!”
She shrugged and stood, closing her makeup case. “Honey, I’ve been around almost 76 years and let me tell you—I’ve never worried about spending Valentine’s Day alone. You know why? No, it’s not my looks, though they’ve always been impressive. It’s my attitude. I think I can do and be anything.” She packed up her purse and came over to squeeze my cheek. “You need a little of that sparkle.” She pressed a business card in my hand.
She clicked out in her impressively high heels and I peeked at the card.
“Dr. Penelope Lange, Psy. D”
I put the card in my pocket, sure I wouldn’t be giving her a call.
Yeah, I was having problems but a therapist? No.
Two giggling girls stumbled in, holding Starbucks. “Um, like, where’s your Neruda? Barnes & Noble is sold out.”
Instead of throwing myself off the nearest tall building, I heaved in a breath and pasted on a smile.
I could do this, and on my own.
That night, I played around on Facebook. I was still friends with my ex-fiancé George because I liked seeing what he was up to, as much as it still tore up my heart to witness him moving on without barely a scar.
George Cruise commented on his own photo: “Shirley, you’re such a flirt :P”
“Dick,” I muttered, fisting another handful of dry Fruit Loops into my mouth.
George Cruise liked Diane Dawson’s status.
“Asshole.” I uncorked a bottle of wine and took a swig right out of the bottle.
George Cruise is engaged to Phyllis Landry.
“Piece of...” but I stopped, rereading the words until they became blurry and twisted.
Everything stopped.
I kept reading the sentence and it grew increasingly foreign to me. The words didn’t even appear to be English anymore.
My breathing returned in gasping and shuddering swells. I chugged more of my wine and threw my laptop somewhere in the corner, ignoring the great smashing sound it made.
“No!” I screamed.
I went to drink the rest of my wine and noticed the bottle was empty.
“Time for vodka,” I announced to no one. I took a couple of shots and began to find my situation quite funny.
I put some music on and cried along with Sinead O’Connor as she wailed that nothing compares to you. I choked on my tears when Amy Winehouse and I went back to black. And I launched into full hysterics when Morrissey whined that he knew it was over. It was all over.
My vodka and my sanity was dwindling right around the time Barry Manilow came up on my shuffle. “Can’t Smile Without You” blared out of my stereo and I sang right along, treating my bottle like a microphone and kicking my legs to the beat.
Right around that time I heard my neighbor banging on the wall, telling me to shut the hell up.
After I hobbled over to my iPod and disconnected it, I collapsed on my sofa and let the real hurt trickle in.
Of all the songs I played, The Smiths hit the nail on the head: I knew it was over, and it never really began, but in my heart? It was so fucking real.
And now I was so fucking lost.
“So what brings you here today?”
I stared at Dr. Penelope Lange—who didn’t look much older than me, by the way—and made a helpless sound. “Um, a terrible vodka and Barry Manilow hangover.”
She smiled and tossed her blonde hair back, pulling it up into a ponytail. She wore a short dress and fishnet stockings. She was not your average therapist, or what I thought an average therapist was, anyway. All the books on her shelves were about self-healing and feng shui. Wind chimes and crystals were strewn about her office like it was the most usual thing in the world. I was a little uncomfortable about it all, but fought hard not to judge.
“Sounds serious.” Her blue eyes twinkled when she said that and I relaxed a bit, relieved she at least had a sense of humor.
“Oh, it was. I don’t feel like talking about it, though.”
“Sure.” She cleared her throat. “What do you do for a living, Harper?”
“I work in a shitty bookstore.”
“What did you do before? What did you study in school?”
I groaned because this was about to lead to what I didn’t want to talk about, but I figured I couldn’t resist every topic. “I studied writing. I used to want to write, anyway.”
She wrote in a little notebook she had. “Why do you say it’s something you used to want to do? What do you want to do now?”
“It feels late for me. I mean, I know I’m young I just ... It all feels exhausting. I have terrible luck. I used to work in publishing for my ex and then everything fell apart.” I cringed. “He actually is the reason I got drunk on vodka and Manilow last night.”
“So let’s talk about what led to that particular hangover.”
I tugged on a loose strand of my sweater that wouldn’t just fucking let go yet. “Well, my ex got engaged. And my last boyfriend dumped me three weeks ago. On New Year’s Eve, actually, a few hours before the ball dropped.”
Penelope didn’t “aw” or say she was sorry, or do any of that other predictable bullshit.
“That sucks. Did he give you a reason?”
“Said he wasn’t ready for commitment.”
“That’s a bullshit excuse.”
A corner of my mouth quirked up. “I know. So what do I do about it? Obviously at this point I have to face it’s me.”
Penelope brought up her legs and sat on her feet. She was so unorthodox; I liked it. “Why do you say that?”
“Why wouldn’t I say that? If you knew my full track record, you’d understand.”
“Hmm.” She stood and walked over to her bookcase, yanking out a particularly large volume that was called How to Feng Shui Your Way into Love. I fought an eye-roll. “I want you to take this home with you. Give it a read. You might find that some of these adjustments will help you become more positive, and to see the world around you in a more optimistic way. You need to let go of these negative men and negative energies, or thoughts, and take charge of your life.”
“This is your suggestion? You think my chi is bad?”
Her smile was mysterious. “Humor me. You just might surprise yourself. And at the very least, it’ll make a good story.”
As soon as I got home I threw the book on my couch and left Mabel a furious voicemail.
“Thanks for sending me to a lunatic who sent me home with a book on feng shui instead of actually helping me!”
She didn’t call back. I opened up a bottle of wine and fiddled around with my laptop. It was hopelessly broken so I accessed Facebook on my phone.
George Cruise is so happy!
I didn’t throw my phone, though I desperately wanted to. Instead I unfriended him.
“Fuck you, George.”
I switched on to Glenn’s page, the asshole who dumped me on New Year’s, to see what he was up to. I nearly vomited.
Glenn Hopper is with Carrie Marissa at La Bella Restaurante
Glenn Hopper loves Carrie Marissa
Kaidence
- 08.03.2022
- 6
- 0
