At Least They're Committed

Gabriel sits across from me, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees, eyes at my level trying unsuccessfully to slice through my stoicism. He shakes his dishwater blond curls ever so slightly as if to the beat of my 70s song list, but I know better. I can never tell if his eyes are green, blue or brown . . . or red for that matter. Maybe they’re different every time he stops by, I don’t know. Maybe I just avoid looking into them. I’m listening to Bob Seger’s Night Moves.

“Whaaaat?” I finally say dropping my shoulders; unable to avoid the gaze nor the slight “you are one sorry-ass beast” smirk any longer.

“You know what,” he says, trying to be strict and flat but not quite succeeding. He likes me more than he thinks he does but most likely less than I want him to.

“It wasn’t real,” I say back without looking up from the laptop. “It didn’t know what hit it; it died quickly and it’s buried in a shallow grave in that overgrown field on 136th and Lowell.”

“Uh, huh,” is all he says. “I’m aware of that. So why did you kill it?”

“Dunno,” I can’t help but glance up quickly in attempt to read whether he’s buying it. He’s not probably. But maybe I’m telling the truth, and maybe he knows that too. You can’t read these guys, at least I can’t. I mean, I can’t even read myself. I think maybe you never will — not unless you’re meant to and I’m not. I just play my role.

“I didn’t want it,” my shoulders straighten with a neurotic twitch and I’m aware my lower lip is low. “I didn’t like it anymore.”

I continue to research the perfect iPod to buy my dad for his 70th birthday. I think the one with 4 gigs or whatever ‘G’ means will work well. I’ll let my mom know after he leaves . . . if he leaves. Deep Purple’s Hush plays online.

The weasels are at my feet, ignoring his. All three, biting, chewing, snarling at my sneakers, evidence of yet another mistake. One that, like all the others, I’m prepared to pay for the rest of my life.

“Do you miss it?” he cocks his head  to the side and lower as he says this, attempting to read any emotion in my eyes. But this time I meet his unsympathetic stare head on wearing the biggest smile, a ghastly Grinch contortion, raising my eyes into menacing slits that mirror all the depth or flight of evil — necessary or otherwise — that he, thus I, seem to be and always have been. His eyes are blue, at least they are today.

“No,” I snear and turn back to the monitor.

 Carry on Wayward Son comes on Finetune.

“Good girl,” he says softly and when I look up, he is gone.