Turf Wars

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

fictional musings of a drunk

Remember when you were a kid? Maybe not just a kid... maybe a teen-ager. Remember all the things you were taught in school?
Some of the facts were interesting and registered while some just got lost in the shuffle. So many items of interest worth 5 points on your final went through the binge and purge stage of your mind.

I remember being a freshman in high school and being told that when cats rub against your legs, it is a more subtle way of marking their territory. Much more acceptable than spraying, which could make the argument that felines are the pets of those who choose decorum in their lives.

You think it is love, though. Some attention. Some gratitude for opening a vacuum-sealed pack of animal by-products and emptying the contents into a dish. You think it is a display of affection... love for giving it a warm place to live. Instead, it is just claiming you as its territory.

I sit at the bar and can't help but notice her eyes. You know that saying: if looks could kill? Well... it goes both ways. Either way, I sip my beer and feel guilty without the slightest notion of why.

A couple weeks before she said we should just be friends. She wasn't ready for anything serious. She didn't want anything. Nothing at all. But now she sits less than 20 feet from me and is staring right through me as though I have done something wrong. All I've done is hugged and talked with another girl.

I came here alone. By myself. I ordered my drink alone and drank it alone. I talked to the bartender alone. I wished I wasn't alone. And then she showed up. She walked in with a look like the entire bar owed her something - never-minding the fact that she owes me at least $200 in drinks. 

I know she saw me when she came in. She looked right at me and smiled. It wasn't until I spoke to someone that wasn't her that she seemed to get upset.

Think back to Sophomore year in high school. Remember when you were taught that birds sing - not to communicate so much as to state where they were? A song to start a fight.

After Jessica turns loose of my neck and tells me what the last week has been like, Moira stares holes through my forehead. For some reason, she is agitated. I didn't kiss Jessica... though I wanted to. I didn't grab her ass or get her to sit on my lap - which I certainly could have done. All I did is shoot the breeze for a couple minutes. As a result, I am under intense scrutiny. I am Moira's own personal CSI episode.

It's only after I start to think about all this that I realize Moira has followed Jessica into the bathroom.

Think back to when you're a little kid and your dad explains that dogs piss on everything they see just so they can claim it as theirs.

Jessica is a friend. She always has been. It's likely that she always will be. She's cute enough; but we just don't have enough in common. One 20-minute chat per week is enough to keep the interest levels up. I don't really care what she plans to do for New Year's eve. But, for all I know, she's being accosted by some psycho-redneck twerp in a stall within throwing distance... and all because she was talking to me.

Think back to when you read the stories about some poor so-and-so who climbed a mountain just so he could put a flag in the top and say he was the first one there. 

Jessica comes out - looking as good as she did going into the bathroom - and takes a seat next to her buddy Pam. Moira isn't long behind her; but, instead of resuming her seat, she comes over and gives me a hug and kisses me on the cheek. She kisses my cheek and sits in my lap and asks how I've been.

I wonder who got the cat-nip out.

Jessica and Pam talk, They seem oblivious to what I'm doing. Even after Jessica looks my way for a split second and asks for a White Russian, she doesn't seem to notice that I have a 5'5" ornament hanging from my neck.

As time drags on, the empty glasses stack up in front of me; and though I've had enough for anyone to drink, all I can think about is taking Moira home... because she's available.

Think back to when you first saw one male dog humping another male dog. It isn't sexual. It's all about dominance.

By the time you hear that it's last call, Jessica and Pam are gone. And, even though Moira just gave me an amazing lap dance to some old Roger Miller song on the jukebox, I already know that I'm going to bed alone. Another night, wasted, without any insight as to whether or not I had a shot at something else.

Even before Moira leaves, I'm thinking about taking a shower. I'm thinking about luffa-fest 2013 and wondering what it will take to get her scent off of me. I don't want her rubbing against my legs. I don't want her singing over my seat.

I just want to go home... whether I'm alone or not. And, I want to know that I have something going for me besides being someone's pre-claimed piece of real estate.

Submitted: October 22, 2014

© Copyright 2021 panvini76. All rights reserved.

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