Substitute

The last thing I heard was a big smack. Then I regained my consciousness in the school infirmary. I woke up in one of their stiff, board-like uncomfortable beds of which are sometimes used inappropriately by the students if the nurse is out.

I tried sitting up but I was held down by those two steel arms of the nurse. She was old and looked rather fragile, but in reality she was like an outdoorsy grandma, tough and strong. “Nope. Don’t try to get up. You had a pretty bad fall.” She adjusted her glasses on her nose.

“How bad?” My head was throbbing but this kind of stuff happened rather often to me.

She screwed up her eyebrows thinking for a minute. “From what I hear there was a slight height difference between one slab of the sidewalk and the other and you went like this.” She pantomimed walking with her fingers on her other hand and then just a fast downward slap onto the ground, as if it were suddenly magnetized. I winced. She gave me ice.

Once I had finally convinced her that I was well enough to go home, I met up with my friends. Ellen Kishmore and Chance Colburn. They were my two best friends of who were fucking behind my back; but I wasn’t supposed to know that. Just because I get taken down by a sinister sidewalk every few days doesn’t mean I’m an unobservant person. I just don’t pay any attention to where I’m walking.

I don’t know a lot of anything. I know about novels, of which is my niche, and about music, another niche. Another thing I know is people. I’m fascinated by their actions and reactions. You know a favorite past time of mine? Going to the airport, and watching all the people come and go wondering what their story is and seeing if I could figure it out. I stopped going as often because apparently feeding gummy bears to the bomb sniffing dogs is frowned upon by our government. Instead I now go to a local shopping district, and sit in a Starbucks, or on a bench outside, and do my hobby but it gets a bit boring. Usually they’re there because they’re shopping, or with someone who is shopping.

My two best friends met up with me to go over to my studio apartment which was closest to the campus out of all of ours. We walked and as usual I got teased for my clumsiness once again. As soon as we got into my apartment, I changed and they attempted to maul each other in the kitchen before I came back. It was one big room, except for the bathroom and closet. Because of the open space they could see if I made my bed this morning or not while they were swapping spit.

After I had changed we got out leftover Chinese for lunch. I heard a knock on the door.

It was my boyfriend, David. He was good looking, smart, dependable, and married; but I wasn’t supposed to know that. This relationship, like so many others before, was just a way to pass the time. He came inside wearing another banal black suit and jacket. My friends didn’t know that he had to remember to take off his ring before coming to my apartment. It was probably in one of his pockets right now.

“Hey,” he said tentatively. He looked from me to my friends to the leftovers they were heating up. “I thought we had plans today.” By plans he meant more than watching a movie or eating lunch.

“I had a fall,” I said, pointing to the ice pack strapped to my head, “and I can’t take part in any strenuous activity for at least a day, so I didn’t think you’d mind that I’d changed plans.”

He shook his head, “No, I don’t mind, I just wish you had told me before I drove all the way to your apartment.” He seemed very dejected that instead of the regularly scheduled afternoon fuck, he was eating reheated broccoli beef with me and my friends. David was an office man. He had a cubicle with those cute little pictures of his family pinned on the fabric walls and everything. Even though I’ve never actually seen his office or been near it, I can imagine.

My friends busied him with idle chat, nothing I hadn’t heard before. I didn’t want them to know that he was married because they’d probably freak out about it; they were keeping secrets from me but they still cared about me to some degree. They cared enough that it made their secret sex life that much more exciting; it probably wouldn’t have lasted this long without it. I’ve known them for four years now and saw the attraction they had for each other almost immediately. A few months ago they finally got together but were too afraid to tell me, fearing I might freak out. My situation is a whole mess of secrets that will almost certainly never be found out.

About ten minutes later David took off, still a bit miffed that he couldn’t release his stored sexual frustrations for today, but left me with a quick kiss on the lips nonetheless. Ellen eyed me as she cleared our dishes. She knew most of what was going on; that he was basically coming over in the afternoons on his lunch break to have sex and then leaving. She didn’t like it. She wasn’t against the sex but to her, nothing other than sex bothered her.

I promised her that it didn’t start out that way. We met on the street, I had fallen down once again, and he wooed me- if that’s at all the proper term for it- then we went on a few lunch dates and even the occasional dinner date when he could manage to lie to his wife that he was working late. Soon it became all about the afternoon sex. It wasn’t a bad way to go; though his restriction to only the missionary position was tiring.

Ellen was about to start another lecture on the “strenuous activity” I had mentioned earlier but fortunately Chance distracted her well enough that he spared me for the rest of the day. I thanked him silently. “Hey, when is the sequel to your last novel coming out?” Chance asked eagerly.

“I’m not writing too much right now; mostly editing for the publishing house. I’ve been assigned to an author whose contract should be finalized by now. I’m going to be meeting with him next week,” I updated them. I write for a living. I started writing when I was young, and had multiple short stories published before I reached fifteen. I signed my first contract at eighteen. I’ve written five novels so far, earning enough to put me through a fine arts college in Chicago, and now they were employing me as a copy editor. They wanted my latest novel to ‘settle’ a bit before I started on the sequel. But I had already finished the first draft of the sequel that is sitting somewhere deep inside a desk drawer anxiously waiting to be edited and published. But my style of writing and even the plot lines were fading quickly from the popular focus. I still have readers but I wasn’t the main money-maker for them anymore.

My friends nodded in thick syrup-like disappointment and unsaid words that were reality. They left not too long after.

It might be strange, but I know what life has to offer me and I never question it. My future is set in stone, not quite as shiny as the dreams I had years before, but at twenty-two it felt silly to set any amount of hope into those bright dreams. I knew better because I’m a substitute person. I’m not an Ellen or a Kristen, who is David’s wife. I like being alone. I’m best friends with two people who are more interested in fucking each other than giving a shit about my life, and I’m a substitute person there. I’m with a guy who is married and only interested in afternoon sex, which also just makes me a substitute person. But I like it that way. It’s a lot less pressure and it allows me to observe rather than be caught up in the middle of it all. It’s a special kind of talent and I’m happy to have it. The drama that is life has no place with me.