THE STARE
I am going to get the girl. You’re staring right back at me, destroying my confidence. Stop it. What do you want? How much is too much cologne? You can’t even offer me some of the most trivial aesthetic advice? Is aesthetic the right word? No. How much cologne? Fuck it! Tonight is the night. What if I over-do the cologne? You’re still staring at me. Are you disappointed? I thought we were friends. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I check my phone. No messages. Maybe she doesn’t like me? Phone vibrates. It’s her. I knew she liked me. Of course she does. She loves me. Not you. It’s not her. I throw my phone on the floor. You’re still staring at me. Stop. You come closer. You pull away. You stare. You don’t speak. What do you want from me? The heat of the spring sun made me warm. Inside. It wasn’t oppressive like the summer sun. Her name reaches out at me through the screen of my phone – cliché? Too much? But seriously. She digs me, laughs at everything I say – Adidas hadn’t lied – use their shower gel and you get the girl; rescue your damsel in distress from the beast downstairs – Impossible is Nothing , so to speak. It is quite simple really. I’m hungry though. I’m in love without question. What is love? All I want to do is kiss her and hold her tight. Again, with the cringe-worthy clichés… I can’t be comfortable because every time I look at you, you’re staring right back at me. Shit. My t-shirt fits perfectly. I look great. My biceps are looking vascular. Countless hours in the gym and consuming bland, grey protein- enriched shakes has paid off. Patches of perspiration are building up around my armpit and just under the collar. The moisture hangs in the air. It’s suffocating me. You aren’t affected. Your stare
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