Young Writers Society

Her:

In the stark darkness of his bedroom, she says, “Will you drop me off, or do I have to take a cab?”

There’s long, tight silence that comes from his end, though she doesn’t understand it since it’s a simple question, really. Most guys have been polite enough to drop her off (and even call her later), yet she’s sure she’d rather have a clean break with this one.

He said he was a businessman while they were chatting, often bragging about the things he’s accomplished in life and the things he hopes of doing with the girl of his dreams (which, admittingly, she hoped of becoming). But one look at his apartment told her this wasn’t the whole truth. He lives in the rougher parts of the city where broken beer bottles lie around and racoons rampage the dumpsters by apartment buildings. And his pad isn’t so much of a pad; questionable stains litter the old carpet and a stale stench hangs heavily in his room, stinking of something she can’t quite put her finger on.

Besides, she should’ve known right when he picked her up in a beat up Toyota and carried her ass to Pizza Hut instead of Milestones as promised. But his picture hadn’t falsely advertised, and the sex was okay, she guesses, though he could’ve done better on his end.

She hoists her head up on her palm, elbow digging into the pillow that smells of sweat, and lets out a deep sigh. She can feel his eyes on her so she knows he’s still awake, but he still doesn’t say a word. She pokes his face, his chest, his leg, but there’s no response. Giving up, she glances at the clock beside her.

Ten past twelve.

“Alright, well, I’m going to go,” she says, offering a last chance, but the man is adamant with his stillness. With one final sigh, she shuffles out of his uncomfortable mattress and prowls in the darkness for her underwear and dress. Once she’s zipped up and ready to go, she pads out the room and half-runs out the rundown apartment before he can change his mind.

Drunk men caress the cracked streets with old songs of love as she rings for the nearest cab to take her to safety. She waits for what seems like hours even though it’s only been five minutes, often looking up at his bedroom window in hopes that he’d be standing there watching over her.

But he never is, and she guesses she might as well spare herself the trouble and just delete his number. When the cab shows she slips in without looking back and goes on her phone right away, deciding if she should post the news on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or Tumblr. She settles on a tweet with a cute selfie of pursed lips and disheveled hair, captioning: what a bust (unamused face emoji) (loudly crying face emoji) but I still look cute though lol (waving hand emoji) hashtag winning.

She posts, stares, then decides to do the same thing on Instagram for the sake of a cute filter. Satisfied, she opens Tinder for the second time that night, swiping left through a blur of faces the whole ride home.

Him:

“Will you drop me off, or do I have to take a cab?”

He blinks for a moment, baffled (even though he really shouldn’t be) at the way she says it, like she’s done this so many times it’s become a norm. Any other guy would find it charming perhaps, but he feels almost insulted that she’s so ready to leave. Not that he had any cheesy plans for breakfast in bed like they do in the movies, of course, but isn’t staying the night a custom? A must?

He tries to find her in the dark though it’s useless, really, feeling foolish for turning off the lights in the first place. It didn’t do a damn thing since the sex wasn’t that great (she could’ve done better on her end, he believes), and it probably would’ve been worse if he wasn’t so baked right now.

The digital clock sitting on the night table glares ten past twelve in red, angry numbers. She breathes deeply and he almost feels the heat on his arm, a manifestation of her impatience. But he can’t decide what to say or how to say it, so he keeps her waiting for a little longer. Maybe if he stays still long enough, she’ll think he’s asleep and leave on her own so he won’t have to be the asshole in this.

Soon enough, he feels a soft finger on his face and his chest and his leg, poking three delicate times that it almost pulls a response out him. He bites his tongue and waits, silent, not even breathing until she says, “Alright, well, I’m going to go,” and sighs before sliding off the bed.

His mother taught him better than to let a woman escort herself home, especially at midnight. Even so, he doesn’t move an inch as he listens to her scramble for her things, zip up her dress, and pad out of the room. Just like that.

When the front door slams shut, he springs from the bed and goes straight to the window, peeking just enough not to be seen. He watches her from the darkness of his room, his heart leaping slightly any time she’d glance back at his window and lock her eyes with his, though he knows she can’t possibly see him. And he almost feels sorry, but still doesn’t stop her when her cab comes and she disappears inside, not even taking a second look for him to change his mind.

The yellow cab runs off into the distance, taking the first girl that has ever graced his bedroom in months with it. When he can’t even make out the shape of the cab anymore, he puts on some pants and a shirt and his broken sneaks, walking out of his home like he does every other night around this time. He goes all the way to his rotting Toyota where he keeps his extra stash of weed in the glove compartment, the thick smell of trash from the dumpster kicking his nostrils up until that moment where he unlocks the car, slips in, and slams the smell out.

And as the car slowly fills with thick haze the more he lights, smokes, and blows, the man thinks what a load of shit the words be yourself really are. Being himself has gotten him nothing and nobody, and being someone else has only proven to be worse, so what should he do? What should he do?

But it doesn’t matter anymore. It shouldn’t matter. What’s done is done, so he pulls his phone from his pocket and opens Tinder while he drags in and breathes out, swiping left continuously as puffs of smoke from his joint float through the crack of his window and dissolve into the starless sky.