She knows no more of you than that disgusting secret.
She didn’t need to. She is that type of a girl, you give her a little bit and she ends up with a lot. She is professional at expansion. She can write an essay on a book if she reads just the prologue. She also gains twenty pounds every winter. She could spend an hour telling someone about the two sentences her father would write her from jail every couple of months. She can feed herself, her mama, and her sister on one chicken for two weeks with the right sides. She managed to extend every one of her week vacation to ten days. She comes home sometimes with a whole outfit she paid three dollars for. Her high school beau was never crazy about her, but she somehow managed to prolong that relationship for three years and nineteen days. And when they broke up, the tears she shed about it weren’t quick or direct either. That just wouldn’t have been her style. She knows what she wants, and she gets analytical as quick as a toddler gets dirty. You give her a little bit and she ends up with a lot.
Secrets are your thing. You’re that type of guy, It means a lot for you to give someone a little bit. You are the king of all that is clandestine. You once hid a fourth grade report card from your parents for years because you had an “x” in division skills. To this day you let your brother think that his gerbil was run over by a car and he let it outside, when you know very well your cat ate it. You managed to shrug off the six cavities you had the year you were twelve, you never told anyone you didn’t brush your teeth but twice that whole year. You never told the hockey team about your mom’s drunker rages. You never told your best friend in high school that you were in love with her, and you still regret that one, but it sure does prove you can keep your secrets. You know how to cheat and you know how to lie if self-preservation is in question. And to you, giving a little bit means a lot.
For some reason though, last night on your first date you decided to tell her that secret. You opened up like beer bottle and she shattered you like a glass. You sat across from her there, in that Italian resteraunt, the one that cost you your whole check, and you tried something new. You were open, you let someone in. She tried something new that night too, she shut someone out. She blew out the candle in the center of the table, stared at you like she had known you all her life and in the last minute concluded you weren’t worth it. She thanked you for your time, and left with a much too illuminated idea of your darkest secret on her analytical mind.
I would call her for a second date if I were you.
No comments:
Post a Comment