Reciprocity; an adjective referring to the human nature to react to negative actions with negativity, and positive ones with positivity.
The bus shook as countless little people strolled in. The businessmen, the businesswomen, the school peoples, the children, the artists and the psychopaths. His eyes glanced upon the other sheep, herding into the steel corral, flashing their brand to the shepherd as he sat behind the wheel. He classified the people to himself, from the comfort of the back seats. A Hispanic girl, probably a freshman, a piercing struck through her lip, and another through her nose, overweight; a daughter of mellow but judgmental parents, those upon she rebelled, and in her angry and malignant demeanor, rebelled against the society that looked down upon her form. The next, a classic teen character, a male, a freshman, skinny face, blue flannel, tight jeans, smelled of cigarettes; probably grew in a neighborhood or family structure without intimacy and found substances to be the answer. They were below him; he was above, he sat judging from his blue, sanitized throne, upon those who sprawled over the crowded den. The truth held no comfort and the metaphysical all of it.
She left him on a Tuesday, a colder night, the wet frigid gaze staring down through the trees, holding them in its eyes. He glanced at his phone, receiving the news - not a call, or a text. A text from a friend. She doesn’t want to be with you anymore. “Hey dude, wanna play some Halo: Reach?”
“No, man, I have to go to the bathroom.”
Tumbling sickly through the door, onto the carpet he tumbled, back against the cupboard. The sobs came hard and exasperatingly fast, the news gripping his heart, her smile and her face all flashing in his eyes, her words in his ears, her touch on his face and her smell on his breath. No no no. Fuck fuck fuck.
Within hours, the sadness became anger, refreshing in its simplicity but mind boggling in its cause. Fuck her.
If she’ll leave me for this, I’m not losing anything.
Fuck it.
Hours later, anger became introversion. Oh, the teen drama. The angst. It was a thing of humor, of muse.
“You should come over. I’m at Charlie’s.” He read the text. It implied sneaking out, she had the intention when she sent it. “We’re watching movies.”. Instantly, he knew, without hesitation he would do it.
An hour later, everyone was asleep. Back to the bathroom. Standard practice - quick and basic sanitary needs, performed with the speed and efficiency honed by hundreds of times of masking the scent of cigarette smoke. Wash the hands, take the dirt from the finger nails, pop the zits, wash the face, put on deodorant, straighten the shirt and collar, brush the teeth. Suck the strong, aggressive air of the toothpaste, into the lungs, out the nose. Fresh. Next, the shoes, a quick choice. The black ones, or the white ones. Easy, with dark jeans, the white made good contrast. Black and grey striped sweater. Off-black t-shirt. Back out into the hallway, it was silent, everyone asleep, scared into their beds by the shock of domestic struggle. Strange, he hadn’t noticed the fight. Indifference was a virtue, spared him the personal strain of emotional involvement. Easy down the stairs, they were carpeted, except for the landing. He had done this before as well, one light step, swing around the noisy, voyeuristic hardwood and back onto the carpet stairs. The door into the garage was painfully loud, it seemed, the quieter he willed it to be, the louder it became, so he thrust it open briskly, moving into the garage and then outside. Within seconds, he moved into the open air, it’s stone thick apathetic chill stabbing through the sweater.
He skipped down the empty, rural road, dancing along the pavement, so eagerly. A tingling was in his biceps, an anger, something to be filled.
I’m on my way.
Okay, we’re coming to scoop you up.
Don’t run me over. =)
The boy stopped, grimacing at the brightness of the headlights as they burned down the street. It came to a stop. For a few brief seconds he considered the possibility that it wasn’t Kylie and Charlie, that is was someone else. A valid fear, considering it was 11 o’clock, well past the curfew of the western state. He settled into the backseat, taking in the familiar smell, around the punk rock paraphernalia. Two pierced faces looked back, smiling.
The drive to the house was strange. Casual, even. He expected sympathy, compassion, some kind of apology and a statement of understanding towards his plea. But no, casual, cutely ironic “how do you do’s” and petty talking of events, jokes.
Three hours later, in borrowed pajamas and a Street Drum Corps t-shirt, he settled into their bed. All three of them, crowded in. Charlie’s room was a sight. The building was a dome structure, therefore, her room was all angles, sloped sides, no horizontal walls, hanging My Chemical Romance and Green Day posters plastering the planes, seemingly random quotations hinting at inside jokes between the two, several nets hanging from the ceiling, pictures, and graffiti, written in Sharpies and lipstick.
After idle conversation, the room became silent.
He could feel her presence, see in the pitch black. It was wrong, he knew, too fast, not the right time. She was on his mind, completely, and utterly. Even before, when Alex was ignoring him, leaving him alone, Kylie was there, with her witty, surreal and imaginative humor, parallel to that of his. And now, more than ever, he needed her, despite what his conscious was telling him. He felt with his hand, down the mattress, to her hand, apprehensively holding it. He had no idea how she would react and he squeezed it, but, like a boon from Heaven, her other arm came around him, and pulled close into a hug, holding him tightly and gently. Kylie was tall, a bigger frame than that of Alex’s, and it felt right, like a connection between people rather than the plush-doll like hugs from the small girl before, and he settled his cheek by hers tracing his thumb along her hand. Trembling fingers pulled back a little, withdrawing the hold, before lacing his fingers along hers into a grasp. At that point, his uncertainty vanished, she moved along with him, not out of pity like the boy feared. He let his nose brush against her cheek, and he felt her breathe in, maybe a sigh, and he kissed her cheek as minimally as possible, squeezing her tightly again.
When determining the value of one’s loss, it is advisable to appraise the material that suspended it.
Get angry. Remember the anger you felt. Pull it back up, shelter it, stoke it with breaths, fan the flames until they warm the sadness away. He didn’t know how she should feel, watching her sit there on the lunch table, just as she did before, 5 months ago, a stranger, someone to which no emotion should be rightfully displayed. He displayed it, voyeuristically, remembering the countless days of hugging her, asking her how her day was, denying his body’s instinct to rush to her.
Oh well. She left you for no reason. It was rotted thread that held her to him, mere fishing line when he felt the heavy cables. She shrugged, pulling the blade into the thread, severing it and letting it fall into the steady currents of time’s past. How heavy could it have been, the material that was suspended, if it were severed so easily? It was mere grams to where he felt tons.
And so, he pulled his backpack, unto his shoulders, waved “hello” to Kylie and friends and walked out of the school.
