“Ride” by twenty-one pilots from Blurryface
“I’d die for you!” he shouted at me the moment I walked on the street. I ignored him. It’d been happening all week.
The barista at the coffee shop managed to keep himself under control for nearly the whole order before he leaned forward, handing me my medium cappuccino in a large cup—I spill, you understand—and conspiratorially whispering, “I’m falling. Save me.”
I smiled back as best as I could, took my beverage, and walked away. I took off the top a few feet away and peered inside. The foam art was a reasonably good portrait of me and his phone number. I’m not going to call him but the linework was undeniably impressive, especially given it was done in steamed milk. I made a mental note to cross another coffee shop off the list. I think the need to leave them behind is happening faster and faster. I should really just bite the bullet and buy myself an espresso machine.
Max, the doorman at work, continues to refuse to look at me. I appreciate it, I guess. I don’t know. It’s weird. I don’t want him salivating over me but acting like I don’t exist doesn’t exactly feel good either.
Work is hard. The personal office helps, but I hate having to close the shades that block out everyone else on the floor. If I don’t though, Grant from Accounting and Don from Billables will be pressed against the windows peering in by 11, without fail.
Claire brings me my work assignments. She leers a little but societal pressures and the rings on her finger keep it semi-professional. In some ways, I prefer the honest near drooling of Vic, but they had to hospitalize him last month. He tried to prove his commitment to me by break dancing in my office because of a random joke I said. 65 year olds with bad hips should not break dance, not even for attention from rising star 30 year old women with taut yoga bodies—not to be overly braggadocious about the whole thing or anything—but I suppose there are some things one needs to learn the hard way.
On the way home, the buskers join in to do a three part harmonic ode to my ass. I give them point for creativity.
A man on the subway platform next to whispers, “I live for your smile,” over and over to himself but never even looks at me. I try to imagine he’s practicing to talk to someone else. I am only partially successful.
A teenager, maybe 19, passes out on the train when I offer him a space on the pole to hang onto and our hands briefly brush against each other. I sigh. It’d been almost two weeks since I made someone pass out.
At home I throw my stuff on the couch and flop into the easy chair with a frustrated groan. Tyrone is knocking together pots and pans as he makes dinner for us. He pops his head out and smiles at me.
“Hey, sweetie,” he greets, making healthy eye contact before disappearing back into the kitchen. His eyes didn’t even flit down to my chest. I can’t remember the last time I had to remind him not to stare at my chest. I kind of miss it.
“Oh man, did you change your hair?” he shouts a moment later. I did. A week ago.
“Yeah, baby,” I call back. “Do you like it?”
“Um…yeah. Sure. It’s…nice.”
I roll my eyes. I can still remember the night he literally crawled over broken glass just to touch my hair.
But he did notice. And after only a week. So…that’s something.