Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Sister, Cont'd


            “Dude, that’s my sister.” He shrugged noncommittally.
            “But isn’t she wonderful? I mean, last night-“
            “I can’t talk about my sister in this context, man.”
            “I just want you to tell her-“ I started.
            “Look, if you want to tell my sister something, you can damn well tell her. I don’t want details, and I’m not your go-between.”
           
                                                            * * *

            “Sorry, my brother told you I didn’t want a boyfriend. Well, I don’t. I’m really sorry.”
            I looked straight into her eyes. So pretty. She looked away. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I just thought there was something…” I tried to tell her how much I cared and how she had always been beautiful to me and how I admired her but never got the chance to get to know her and how I had wanted her so long that I stayed awake at night thinking about how I might improve myself to be worthy of her standards. But no words actually formed.
            “God, I’m sorry. We don’t have anything. You’re probably great, but I didn’t think last night meant or changed anything.”

                                                            * * *

            “Why can’t I be more than her brother’s best friend?” I demanded of my toothbrush. He perked upright, bristly and not at all empathetic. I waited for a response until I decided that personifying a hygienic item was not the answer. So I called my best friend. I didn’t understand why the hell he wasn’t there for me with ice cream or something.
           
                                                            * * *

            “Dude, if I had a sister, I’d let you have her. If I had two sisters, I’d let you have your pick. I don’t get why you aren’t helping me out.”
            He sighed in an exaggerated burst of phone-static. “You’re being an idiot; it’s not up to me. At all. She’s my sister, not my bitch.”

                                                            * * *

            I wrote her a letter about how her skin felt that night under the subtle rays of moonlight. Poetic crap. I threw it away. I drew her a picture. That one was gone before I finished it. My friend called.
            “Man, I hate to tell you, but you really need to know-“
            “Yeah, I’m like a toothbrush, I know. A really ugly, dumb, spiky fucking toothbrush.”
            “Well- actually, yeah, that sums it up.”
            “Just tell your sister that I’m sorry and I don’t deserve her and she should find a better guy.”
            He smirked on the other line. “You’re such a fucking toothbrush, dude.”

Sage 
7-24-12
             

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