J. J. Carlson
Tell Me I’m Yours
1
Though reclining at the edge of a busy street in broad daylight, the man was virtually invisible. He wore no camouflage, and he wasn’t hiding behind a newspaper or dark sunglasses. He was invisible because of the narcissism of the human race.
Someone like him might as well be a piece of trash on the sidewalk. He wasn’t particularly ugly by any objective standard, but he lacked movie-star good looks. He was no one—a face in the crowd. Men, and especially women, would tread upon him without a second thought. In an age of airbrushed social media models and larger-than-life reality TV stars, it took a truly impressive specimen to pull the human eye away from the incessant streams of carnal stimulation.
Smiling, he pulled his baseball cap lower. Even if he was incredibly handsome, most women wouldn’t give him more than a passing glance. They lacked either the genetic makeup or cultural grooming to openly betray their sexual interest. He didn’t see this as a weakness; in fact, it was quite the opposite. Men, who often gawked like drooling baboons, were clearly the weaker sex.
As if to confirm his musings, a passing group of middle-aged men slowed their pace to admire a woman with straight blond hair and full lips. One of them stared a moment too long and stepped on the heel of the man in front of him. The entire group fumbled for a moment as if they’d forgotten how to walk. Then, turning their eyes away from the woman, they broke the spell and continued on their way.
The “invisible” man chuckled and depressed a button on his outdated MP3 player. The track reset, and he heard his own voice through his noise-canceling headphones.
“I brought you here because…I want to ask you something. Something important.”
A cooing, feminine voice replied, “You’re so funny sometimes. You know you can ask me anything.”
The man’s fingers began to tingle. There was a pause, and the younger, less experienced version of himself said, “Do you love me?”
The woman began to cry as if her most cherished dreams were coming true. “Yes! Of course, I do. You make me happier than I ever thought I could be.”
After nearly a minute of hugging and kissing, the woman pulled away and asked him a question in return. “So…what about you? Do you love me?”
The tingling sensation moved across the man’s chest and into his groin. The audio recording was low-quality and polluted with signal attenuation, but it was enough to get his heart pumping. He held his breath as he waited for his own reply.
“No.”
A beat, and the woman’s wounded response rang in his ears. “Wh—what do you mean?”
The man closed his eyes and inhaled as if taking a long pull from a cigarette. In his mind’s eye, he could see the look on the woman’s face, the way her knees trembled—the entire world melting beneath her feet.
“It’s a simple word, only two letters. And it only has one meaning.” The pre-recorded voice filled with venom and began spitting one word out at a time. “I. Don’t. Love. You.”
There was the sound of a wooden chair toppling against a marble floor. Though years had passed since that glorious day, the man had to cover his face to hide his delight. The recording continued, echoing with the woman’s futile attempt to leave the room.
“What the hell is this?” The woman snapped. “Unlock this door!”
Another chair groaned against the floor, and his voice returned, deeper and more menacing. “Thank you so much for that. The look on your face was priceless. But I’m afraid I can’t be satisfied until it’s over. Until the crescendo.”
The woman cursed his name and shrieked at him not to touch her. Her cries tickled the man’s ear, and he felt a phantom warmth in his hands. Discreetly, he touched the ends of his fingers together, savoring the memory of the girl’s delicate neck.
A few minutes later, the sounds of struggle ceased, and the recording came to an end. The man exhaled and wiped his sweaty palms on his lap. The world swam back into focus, and he studied the mindless drones around him. A woman was walking down the street, holding hands with her son, who skipped along beside her. The man looked away, resting his gaze on the blond woman seated at the café table. He took a mental snapshot and lowered his head—he was far too disciplined to be caught gawking. His borderline-eidetic memory allowed him to study the girl from the privacy of his mind. Her hair, which looked flawless at first glance, was a tad stiff, as if she had used too much hairspray. Her eyeshadow was too dark for her complexion, and her lipstick was too red. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, as the middle-aged zombies seemed to suggest, and she was definitely trying too hard.
She’s getting desperate, the man thought. Perfect.
Water and ice spilled across the table, and the man sitting next to the woman jumped to his feet. The woman’s face flushed red, and she reached for a napkin.
“I am so sorry,” she said. She set the soaked napkin aside and grabbed another, but when she brought her hand back to the man’s slacks, her elbow caught on a dessert plate. A half-eaten piece of chocolate cake, laden with icing and filled with cream, leapt from the porcelain saucer and landed on the man’s Oxford shoes.
The young man clenched his fists, seething with anger. Then, reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his keys. Without saying goodbye, he pivoted on his heel and marched toward a Maserati Gran Turismo which chirped as he approached.
The blond watched him go, then she sank into her chair and hid her face in her hands. She didn’t notice the man in the baseball cap, only three tables away, who was shaking his head.
“Oh, Evelyn, why waste your time on him?” he whispered. “You belong to me. We are destined to be together; you just don’t know it yet.”
2
Evelyn Jameson was cursed. It was the only explanation. She’d been on three dates in the last three weeks, and they were all unmitigated catastrophes. Today, she’d ruined her date’s slacks and shoes, which probably cost more than she made in a month, and he stormed off without even saying goodbye. The worst part was, compared to her other romantic outings, today had gone fairly well. It wouldn’t even rank in her top five worst dates of all time.
Staring at the white tablecloth, which still dripped cold water onto her lap, she recalled some of her most spectacular failures. There was the music teacher—she forgot his name halfway through dinner. When he caught on, he began using her first name repeatedly, trying to get her to respond in kind. Flustered, she took a wild guess. When she guessed wrong, the teacher slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the table, which only covered his portion of the check, and walked out. Dinner with…whatever his name was…climbed the rankings to claim the bronze medal of worst dates.
The silver medal belonged to Chet, a man she’d been seeing for nearly three months. She was his plus-one at a wedding, and she was excited to finally meet some of his friends and family. But as she took her seat next to Chet, she realized that everyone was glaring at her. During the reception, Chet vanished after the first dance and didn’t return. During his absence, no one said a word to her except the bride’s mother, who stomped across the room and called Evelyn a “filthy whore.” In tears, Evelyn fled the room and began searching for her absent boyfriend. She checked the kitchen, then the lobby, then the bathrooms, then the coat closet. She was about to give in and call a taxi when she heard a thumping noise at the back of the lobby. She pulled a storage room door open and found Chet standing there like a deer hypnotized by an oncoming truck. One of the bridesmaids was in the closet with him, but there was no guilt on her face. She smirked and said, “Go home, slut. He’s made his choice, and it isn’t you.” The bridesmaid slammed the door, leaving Evelyn speechless and alone. Later, she discovered that Chet had been in a long-term relationship with the bridesmaid, who was also the bride’s sister. He’d broken up with her two weeks before the wedding. Two weeks. He’d been cheating on this woman with Evelyn for months, and Evelyn didn’t even know she existed. When Chet saw his lovely ex-girlfriend standing next to the bride, he realized what a huge mistake he’d made and begged her to take him back. Incredibly, impossibly, she forgave him, and Evelyn was branded a home-wrecker.