Romance is dead
Everyone, watching. Watching me—that little scab with glasses. They’re waiting for something to happen, I know it, just like in a sick, corny chick movie; they’re waiting for the move that creates the sobby, disgusting sex scene. Something erotic from the dorky little boy. Waiting for the final threshold to be crossed—is he a man or a sexless puppet? But I’m not what they expect, not even close. In my eyes there are hallways of darkness, and I have to be the last thing anyone expects.
But who is this Martian? She. It is she, the Xena warrior princess girl, the one in tights and a tutu, gleaming like a well-oiled machine. She is so perfect, it’s horrifying. Her lips have this metallic look to them, her face seems cold, her eyes…distant. I am more than this. This robot in afro-punk clothing. I am more than her greasy, dreadlocked hair can offer—her stench of menthol and her little tongue in and out, in and out like a snake’s. I am more than the little box, where her sculpted face leans towards me, her eyelashes crooked and misshapen.
Sweat, it’s something human at least. I was expecting tears, (don’t people cry at their firsts?). I was expecting something, SOMETHING, other than her solid complacency. To her, I am a number in a line. I am a barcode. I forget sometimes, that I don’t exist. But the sweat, it stings. This was not what I had imagined. Here I am, a single puddle of salt, my eyes dry, and I’m hopelessly turned off.
“Get a move on,” some burly guy in sweats pushes me hard with his forefinger, making my shoulder jump, “or do I need to teach you the intricacies of lean, kiss, leave?” He laughs at his own joke.
I am not amused.
She’s still waiting. She closes her eyes as if to hurry me on. Her lids are painted thick and pretentious with black liner, and when I pull away, a bit has smeared on my upper cheek. It’s like a small moth. I bite my lip and feel the smooth metal in my pocket. The guy behind me is sighing with impatience. I want to tell him to shove it, to cuss him out, but am too preoccupied with current thoughts. The girl has a weird, one sided grin. Ash on my tongue. What kind of freak show are we running here?
The knife is like a security blanket. The beat of the world slows to a calm tempo as I stroke the blade. I want to press in hard with my thumb, make myself bleed something ferocious, but then I remember: it’s time for her to bleed. It’s time for her to feel the edge, and then I think—maybe her tongue is a razor sharp shearing machine, and her gums may be bloody and veiny; but then I didn’t taste her, didn’t taste the blood. I would recognize it. I might not even want to hurt her, if she was hurting herself. That would make the whole thing pointless.
But then the guy jabs me again and growls with an animalistic tendency, so I have to move. I shove my hand into my pocket again, and this time, I make contact. Not on purpose, but the pain is not unwelcomed. I feel their horrified stares as blood starts to show through the jean, but I’m already moving to the back of the line, ready to do it all again, ready to kill the romance.
