Maybe someday I’ll meet him.
And we could burn together.
This day is dragging.
They all do, but this one more than usual. I just finished bringing food to the inmates in solitary, and I’ve decided that it’s a good time for a break. Slipping into the upstairs break room, I go to the fridge for a can of Coke. Cracking it open, I sip slowly, letting the fizzy liquid give me something.
What am I searching for here? Energy? Distraction? Serotonin??
Probably all of it, on some level, because I’m a recovering junkie who’s perpetually bored, and curious…Whatever it is, I don’t think I’m gonna find it in this damn can of pop.
That’s likely part of what’s gotten me into this situation. Being impulsive and obsessive are just a few more facets of my addictive personality, I suppose.
Choosing to distract myself from the endless nonsense in my brain, I take out my phone and pull up a text to Nikki. Chewing the inside of my cheek, thumbs hovering, I consider what I’m considering… And how she might react.
I’m running out of ways to do this. Running out of excuses.
Sucking in a breath, I go for broke. And I fucking lie to my wife,again.
For the millionth time.
Hey babe… I have to go out with the guys tonight. Velle has something planned.
My heart is thumping quickly, though it still feels weak. It’s dying, I know it is. Slowly being strangled by the hands of my denial.
Nikki writes back in less than a minute.
That’s fine. Bebe invited me out anyway.
Me: Cool yea go have fun. I’ll bring breakfast over before we leave.
Nikki: Sounds like a plan :)
Raking fingers through my hair, I swallow the lump in my throat.
This isn’t working.
You know it isn’t.
Stop pretending you’re not making both of you miserable with this fallacy you’ve created.
Ignoring my internal berating, I saunter over to the table where today’s papers are always scattered and sift through the pages. Searching, almost like a reflex, though I know there won’t be anything in here about him. There’s nothing on my phone, and Google gets you news faster than the old-fashioned way. That said, there’s just something nostalgic about a physical newspaper article.
I have a few I’ve cut out and saved. I keep them in a shoebox in the back of my closet, and Iswear to God, I’m not trying to seem like a fucking serial killer, or some stalker who hides in the bushes outside his house waiting for him to go to sleep so I can peep through the window and watch.
I don’t know where he lives or anything… Well, not hisaddress. I do know he lives in Gravesend, but that’s about it. Forall of the Dash-obsessing I’ve done over the last two years, he is still very much an enigma.
No social media presence, no blogs or family information, or random embarrassing shit from high school. The only thing I’ve been able to find about him are the occasional articles and arrest records. Hence why I seek them out, despite not reallywantinghim to get himself into the sort of trouble that would warrant such things.
I just want to feel close to him.I want to know more…
In my mind, in my fantasies, I know himverywell.
But it’s not real, and I know that. I’m notcrazy.
I’m just a little… infatuated. With someone I’ve never fucking met.
Jesus, somebody call a shrink.
