My phone vibrates on my chest, but I ignore it.
I stare at the ceiling still panting and hating myself for wanting something I can’t have.
That I’ll never have.
Tek is straight.
Tek is thirteen years older than me.
It will never happen.
I reach for the shirt I wore yesterday from the floor beside the futon. My phone falls to the ground, the screen lighting up, and as I finish wiping my hand I see a message notification from Tek.
WOOTEK:$20 an hour.
Tuesday and Wednesday only next week 8:30-5. The shop is closed on Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and Saturday.
Tuesday, Thursday & Saturday from the following week.
The shop closes from Christmas day to New Years day.
If by January 1st I haven't killed you, I’ll raise your pay to $22.50
I toss my phone to land in my open suitcase, refusing to reply.
What a mindfuck.
No sorry. No mention of what happened. NoI was a total ass wipe but it’s only because I can’t stop thinking about you and I don’t know what to do with myself.
“Fucking idiot,” I berate myself. But, like a fool, I grab my slippers from the floor, curl into a ball, and hug them to my chest.
This is why I didn’t want to go to the shop when Eden asked me to. I knew I’d end up here, pining over the same man I have since I was fifteen, except now it’s up close and personal.
One step inside Teken Ink and I was totally fucked.
My watch says I went to bed at eleven last night, but it’s a lie I’m happy to keep. If my schedule has healthy sleep patterns my denial doesn’t seem so pathetic. When the reality is, I crawled into bed around three a.m. but the pillow case was too rough, and my house’s ceiling felt so white it broke through the moonless Northern Washington night.
I've spent the past two nights sprawled out on the couch doom-swiping through Tinder like a mad man. My matches are always high, and my inbox is always full, and despite some amazing prospects in Mount Vernon, I never locked anything in.
I was at the gym by five-thirty this morning, only to mindlessly stroll on the treadmill for an hour, never breaking a sweat.
Nothing sticks.
Nothing burns it off.
Nothing distracts.
The emptiness had started to wane. The weight was beginning to lift. Then he looked at me with that cocky twitch to his lips and I didn’t see Eden’s little brother, I saw—
Nope.
I push the thought out of my mind as I dump my backpack behind the reception desk because I’m too tired and lazy to walk to the back room.
Sitting down, I flick on the computer then rest my hands on the desk top beside it, and stare at them. They’re dry and starting to crack, more proof of how little I’m taking care of myself.
I tear off a small hangnail with my teeth. It tastes like hand sanitizer. Wonderful.
Like an idiot I check my phone, but there’s been no correspondence in or out since I texted Carey on Saturday morning.
