"Old fashioned men always want a mistress"
She's fine so long as he's not there. When he's in the same room as she is, she changes. Something about her body changes, she moves differently, she thinks differently. Everything changes. When he's in the room she can feel his eyes on her, watching her every move and it takes all of her will power not to look back over at him in his direction. Looking at him would only mean that he won, and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she even cared about his presence.
It's a game that they both play, and they know that they're playing even though neither one of them will admit to that fact.
He walks in late. He always arrives late and that's something that really annoys her. She's usually tipsy by this point and has gathered some liquid courage. He walks straight up to the bar without acknowledging her existence and buys his first snakebite of the evening. He turns around, finds his group of friends and then goes to stand with them to watch the girls dance.
For half of the evening, the two of them pretend that they don't even notice each other. They continue to talk to their friends, laughing a little too hard at jokes that aren't even really funny and stealing quick glances whenever they don't think that they'll be caught. Maybe she'll saunter up to the bar and walk right past him without saying hello, or he'll pass by her on the way to the toilets and keep his eyes directly in front of him. No words are exchanged. They're never exchanged. It's all a part of the game that they play.
Eventually, through the curtains of smoke from her cigarette, she'll lift her eyelashes up to look in his direction and finally, for the first time the entire night they'll make eye contact. He winks at her from across the room and gives a little nod. She smiles slightly, takes another long drag from her cigarette and exhales slowly. Sitting alone on the couches, she bobs her head to the music and waits for him to come sit next to her. How long will he take?
Not long. He makes his way through the dancing groups and sits down next to her.
"Hey, you alright?" he'll ask as he takes another sip from his drink and sits it down on the table in front of them.
"Yeah, I'm good. You?" she says not giving him any kind of eye contact, at least not just yet.
"I'm alright. How come you didn't come say hi to me tonight?" He knows it winds her up. He knows that that one little comment will send her over the edge.
"Me not say hi to you? What about you saying hi to me? How come I always have to be the one who comes up to you to say hi? Are you so good that you can't come up to me?" Maybe it's the four drinks that are kicking in her blood stream, but it all comes flooding out of her mouth and there's no way to stop it. It's all just random, rambling, gibberish that doesn't mean a thing.
He just sits back and smiles as she goes on her mini tirade. He likes it when she's annoyed with him. He likes seeing her passion over the most insignificant things. He likes knowing which buttons to press. And he definitely loves the chase.
Eventually she stops ranting, takes a long drag from her cigarette and then tosses it on the ground. They are two high school kids with the only difference being that they’re allowed to drink and smoke legally. She wonders why things have to stay be so complicated. How come they allow things to get so complicated?
Things become quiet again. Each of them wonders whether they should give up already and find their group of friends so they aren’t left sitting on a couch alone, feeling like the entire room is watching both of them even though that’s clearly not the case. They’re both thinking the same thing. They’re having mini flashbacks of just the other week when they didn’t need words, when actions told the story. There wasn’t any awkwardness and there certainly weren’t any complications. It all felt completely natural and everything fit. The chemistry, as they say, was hot.
However, in this moment, sitting on the couch, both of them sat scared and unsure. People go through these emotions all the time. Their thoughts are clouded by stupid words and secondhand information. Too many nights have been spent over analyzing apparitions that they have swarming in their heads. It’s self-torture at it’s absolute best.
They both look at each other again and hold the stare for a little too long. Again, there aren’t any words. He stands up, takes his drink in his hand and walks off leaving her alone on the couch, making her feel alone in her emotions. She sits to smoke another cigarette. She throws her shoulders back a little bit more, holds her head up a little bit higher, straightens her back and crosses her legs. It’s no use trying to get inside his brain and decipher his thoughts. But as she sits there with her last fag out of her brand new pack that she only bought two hours earlier, she can’t help herself but to try again and signs her name for another round for the next night.