speak plainly, and we’ll get rid of all the drama in one go. Yeah,
I fucked up after the concert. That doesn’t mean I had changed my mind about
meeting you. It means something happened that made that meeting impossible. I
couldn’t fly back to the UK due to work commitments. Yeah, I could have asked
Jen for your number, but I didn’t want to start anything over a telephone, with
you miles away. That’s not how I play things. I wanted to get to know you
then, and nothing has changed. So how about cutting out the bull’ and you let
me show you LA.”
Oh fuck! Did he just say that? Yep, he did.
I know I’m staring at him. I also know I’m frowning, and I can feel that
self-preserving wall of mine slowly sliding upwards.
I don’t know what to say. He obviously
doesn’t give a shit and says what he thinks, so maybe that’s my way to go too. It’s
not in me to be so straight forward, so it takes all my courage to answer with
the one word question I want to ask.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Why?” he repeats,
raising an eyebrow questioningly.
“Why did you want to meet me? Why do you
want to waste your time showing me LA?” I ask, knowing that for some unknown
reason to myself, I almost sound angry.
He leans towards me, resting his arms on
his knees and regards me quizzically, as if he’s trying to figure me out.
“I think the question should be, why I
wouldn’t? But to answer your question. I wanted to meet you because there I
was, bored shitless, waiting for a car to take me to the sound check, when a
car came racing along with one of our songs at full volume. I watched as the
girl sat in her car, obviously engrossed in her own world, listening until the
track finished, before climbing out of her car and taking my breath away. She
had long red hair that shined like flames in the sunlight, and awesome legs. To
top it off, when I spoke to her, her smile lit up her face, and was promptly
followed by the word shit!” he smiles. “I couldn’t get you out of my head. So
when I saw you as I was entering the elevator, I decided I wanted to meet you. Now
does that answer your question?”
Fuck! I’m screwed. I don’t know what to say.
I’ve never had to deal with someone as forthright as him before. He doesn’t
hold anything back.
Even so, I still don’t understand, so again
I whisper, “Why?”
“Why?” He repeats. “Did you not hear a word
I just said? Why do you think I couldn’t be interested in meeting you, and why
do you sound so pissed off when I say I am?”
He sounds like he’s the one becoming pissed
off. My protective wall is almost to the top now. Much more and it will slam
home. Unfortunately, my anger gains the better of me and I snap.
“Yes, why? I’m not one of your perfect
bodied, stick thin models or actresses. I’m not glamorous and beautiful or
famous. I’m a boring everyday person who happens to like writing stories. I’m
also, I hate to admit it, older than you. So excuse me for wondering, why?”
As I proceed through my tirade, his eyes
narrow, and his mouth gets tighter. By the time I finish, I can see he is
holding his anger in check. Well! I’ve said my piece. I’ve given him a way
out, so he can back off and that will be the end of it. He won’t have to
pretend to like me anymore to save face.
He stands up, runs his hand through his
hair in frustration, and glowers down at me.
“Damn it woman you have issues, so let’s go
through them one by one.” He bends down, places a hand either side of me on the
bench to fence me in, and leans in closer. “No, you’re not stick thin. No,
you’re not a model or an actress. You’re a writer. Someone who creatively
puts the words together, to make the stories in the first place. That also
makes you not boring. As for your age, who gives a fuck? If I’m not bothered,
what does it matter?”
That’s it. The minute he says I
I fucked up after the concert. That doesn’t mean I had changed my mind about
meeting you. It means something happened that made that meeting impossible. I
couldn’t fly back to the UK due to work commitments. Yeah, I could have asked
Jen for your number, but I didn’t want to start anything over a telephone, with
you miles away. That’s not how I play things. I wanted to get to know you
then, and nothing has changed. So how about cutting out the bull’ and you let
me show you LA.”
Oh fuck! Did he just say that? Yep, he did.
I know I’m staring at him. I also know I’m frowning, and I can feel that
self-preserving wall of mine slowly sliding upwards.
I don’t know what to say. He obviously
doesn’t give a shit and says what he thinks, so maybe that’s my way to go too. It’s
not in me to be so straight forward, so it takes all my courage to answer with
the one word question I want to ask.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Why?” he repeats,
raising an eyebrow questioningly.
“Why did you want to meet me? Why do you
want to waste your time showing me LA?” I ask, knowing that for some unknown
reason to myself, I almost sound angry.
He leans towards me, resting his arms on
his knees and regards me quizzically, as if he’s trying to figure me out.
“I think the question should be, why I
wouldn’t? But to answer your question. I wanted to meet you because there I
was, bored shitless, waiting for a car to take me to the sound check, when a
car came racing along with one of our songs at full volume. I watched as the
girl sat in her car, obviously engrossed in her own world, listening until the
track finished, before climbing out of her car and taking my breath away. She
had long red hair that shined like flames in the sunlight, and awesome legs. To
top it off, when I spoke to her, her smile lit up her face, and was promptly
followed by the word shit!” he smiles. “I couldn’t get you out of my head. So
when I saw you as I was entering the elevator, I decided I wanted to meet you. Now
does that answer your question?”
Fuck! I’m screwed. I don’t know what to say.
I’ve never had to deal with someone as forthright as him before. He doesn’t
hold anything back.
Even so, I still don’t understand, so again
I whisper, “Why?”
“Why?” He repeats. “Did you not hear a word
I just said? Why do you think I couldn’t be interested in meeting you, and why
do you sound so pissed off when I say I am?”
He sounds like he’s the one becoming pissed
off. My protective wall is almost to the top now. Much more and it will slam
home. Unfortunately, my anger gains the better of me and I snap.
“Yes, why? I’m not one of your perfect
bodied, stick thin models or actresses. I’m not glamorous and beautiful or
famous. I’m a boring everyday person who happens to like writing stories. I’m
also, I hate to admit it, older than you. So excuse me for wondering, why?”
As I proceed through my tirade, his eyes
narrow, and his mouth gets tighter. By the time I finish, I can see he is
holding his anger in check. Well! I’ve said my piece. I’ve given him a way
out, so he can back off and that will be the end of it. He won’t have to
pretend to like me anymore to save face.
He stands up, runs his hand through his
hair in frustration, and glowers down at me.
“Damn it woman you have issues, so let’s go
through them one by one.” He bends down, places a hand either side of me on the
bench to fence me in, and leans in closer. “No, you’re not stick thin. No,
you’re not a model or an actress. You’re a writer. Someone who creatively
puts the words together, to make the stories in the first place. That also
makes you not boring. As for your age, who gives a fuck? If I’m not bothered,
what does it matter?”
That’s it. The minute he says I
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