Coping mechanisms

“I think everyone goes through a Xanax phase.” It’s 9 a.m. and we still haven’t been to bed. On his porch he’s sitting to the left of me; Butters is at my feet. Directly ahead and about a foot away, there’s a metal patio table. This section of the porch isn’t covered, which is probably why there is so much rust on the table. The rust is clearly visible despite the fact that someone, perhaps a parent of one of his fuckboy roommates, had covered the metal frame and table top with black spray paint in an attempt to freshen it up.

I leaned forward and grab a damp pack of Parliments from the table. I take the last two cigarettes from the carton, careful not to touch the filtered ends, and light them both, passing one to him. My intention in doing so is to convey that I’m his friend; “I’m aware of your needs and desires, and if you’ll let me I’ll make sure those needs and desires are always met, I ask nothing in return.” I’ve really got to work my lack of boundaries.

Sometimes I hold the cigarette between my fingers and place the filtered end between his lips myself. But it's daylight now, plus we’re not alone, so I decide that doing so now would be too sexual of an act if I wanted to preserve the validity of any future argument that I hadn’t been in love with him for the last year of my life.

The air is cool but my face is flushed nonetheless. I’m hyper focused on making sure my words come out confidently and naturally. This awareness of how awkward I feel has kept me from opening my mouth for a while now. I hope that this translates into sleepiness. Anything else would be detrimental.

A few months ago, I would’ve been waiting patiently for someone to make the first move; for someone to finally say: “I need to go to bed.” I’d have my fingers crossed inside of the front pocket of his jacket that those words would be spoken sooner than later. I’d say a 5 second prayer in the bathroom just to the left of the patio door that once everyone left, he’d pull me in close and take me upstairs.

But this time, I knew better. Now I know that my only hope to get him alone rests completely within my ability to string him through the brick fencing toward the pool. Our steps follow the same dance every time.

My 5'3" body is standing barefoot on my tip toes, still leaving 12 inches difference between our heights. As he perceives me from above, I hope my legs look skinny as my toes dance on the concrete, allowing him to feel the playfulness of my feminine energy.

If Laura and Jack are still coked out enough to continue their debate about egyptians and the pyramids, I’ll have a good chance simply because he’ll grow bored due to his ignorance on the subject. Dragging his feet, he’ll wander over towards me. We will be standing side by side, both looking over into the pool, the entire time my brain in overdrive trying to come up with a way to close the 6 inches of space between us. I comment on the fact that the pool hasn’t been cleaned since they moved in. “Are there snakes in there?” -- an exhausted attempt to show him I trust him to keep me safe from danger. I'll ask my question while I look up at him with my eyes for maximum effect on his ego.

Sometimes he will act like he’s going to push me in. I hear myself laugh. An attempted giggle if you will. I want him to think I’m adorable. I am a gorgeous little babydoll and I need you to protect me. I’ve smoked too many cigarettes over the last 6 hours to pull this off. The noise that leaves my throat comes out rough and awkward. I cringe on my own behalf.

Laura robs me of the opportunity to explore how the scene will play out when she tells me she needs a ride home so she can let the babysitter off. I respond by faking my concern and agree that we should leave soon. It’s a convincing attempt to make him believe that I’ve been wanting to leave for a while so that I can hurry home and shower. I imagine him spiraling as he entertains the possibility that I have been ready to leave his house for hours now so that I can go home and get pretty because I’ve got a fun and exciting day planned and he's not included in these plans.

A group goodbye left me unsatisfied which was followed by an excrutiating 30 minutes in the backseat of an Uber. The driver, Stephanie, was apparently quite chatty in the morning time and as she rambled on about her experience as a driver for Instacart, I nodded my head and pushed the thought of you away.

I run a hot bath before finally collapsing in bed. Sleep deprivation, an entire Bota Box of Pinot Noir, and 2 grams of cheese band together to take me down. They convince me to surrender. Fully charged, his phone reads “2 missed calls” and “text message”.