Will. Draft One.

by Christopher Atkinson


You hug me from across the center panel and I inhale your scent of peaches. You’ve told me you don’t wear body spray, that you’re not in high school anymore, but I recognize the smell right away; I’ve bought it for a few ex-girlfriends. Either way, I don’t care. You don’t kiss me and it’s okay because I know you don’t want to rush things. You tell me goodnight, I do the same, and you get out of the car and I make sure you get in your door before I pull away.
I don’t even remember anything that happened tonight; I just remember you getting to your front door, turning to face me, and smiling.
It’s with this image in mind that I decide to go out for a drive.
There’s a wonderful freedom in driving aimlessly. With nowhere to go, I could end up anywhere, which is exactly where I want to be. Wherever I end up is where I’m supposed to be. Every other time it’s been back home and I’m sure that’s where I’m headed tonight but it’s the sense of adventure that keeps my foot on the pedal.
Other images from the night start flooding back. The semi-romantic but mostly-comedic movie we went to see. The popcorn we got and didn’t eat. The soda we shared and the ticket money I had to slip into your purse when you weren’t looking. The way you cuddled up to my arm halfway through the movie and spent the next forty-five minutes in that position.
To be honest, it’s the best night I’ve had in a long time. And driving only enhances that fact, like the way it’s sweltering in my car yet I refuse to roll down the window for fear of losing your sweet scent. It’s cheesy and I’m not just trying to be romantic, it’s true. Everything perfect I’ve ever imagined would get tossed out the window if it were opened. Even so, it all just gets stuffed in the open ashtray. I don’t smoke so it might as well serve a purpose.
I hook up the iPod to play over the car radio and continue driving.
I don’t think it’s a heart attack. I’m too young and in basically good shape. But there’s something ambiguous stamping its big boot of pressure all over the floor of my chest. For a moment I can’t breathe, so I crack the window. I guess this happens every once in a while but the fresh air always helps.
An old Sunny Day Real Estate song comes on the radio. It’s kind of grungy but kind of poppy and I could never entirely understand the lyrics but the guy is singing his heart out so I know it means something. I think some clouds are rolling in because it’s growing darker and there aren’t many lampposts.
I keep my foot on the gas.
There’s a beep from my pocket and I hardly check texts while I’m driving but I hope it’s you so I open my phone.
It’s her. I’ve told you about her and the past I had with her and how me and her grew real close as friends afterwards. She wants to know if I’m doing anything important. I am, but I’m excited to tell her how the night went so I tell her I’ll be over in a few.
The song switches to some unsigned band you and me found on the internet. I forget their name but it’s fun and happy. I turn it up.
I get to her house and none of the lights are on but I’m used to it. It usually means she’s a little upset over something and maybe that’s why she texted me. Maybe hearing my good news will cheer her up.
I head inside. I hear some soft music coming from upstairs so I follow it. I notice her mom’s bedroom door is open and the room’s empty; she must be working overnight.
I head to her room. She’s half asleep on the bed with a half-empty bottle of wine on her night stand. She must be having a pleasant half-dream because she’s mostly smiling. I tap her shoulder until she’s awake.
Her eyes open wide when she sees me and she sits up, hugs me. I notice the music emanating from her computer is some sad acoustic song and I ask her if everything’s alright. She talks about her friend that she’s been “talking to” and how she’s finding out he’s kind of a douche when it comes to girls. All sex, no visible emotion, no sympathy, empathy, or any kind of -pathy. Girls are just walking vaginas for the harvesting. It’s like he has no willpower: He gets a girl lying in a bed and he’s got to put his private parts and hers together.
I tell her I think that’s awful and she thanks me, why can’t there be more guys like me, or at least why can’t she meet them. I know she had her chance with a guy like me before, in that me and her used to be together almost, but I don’t say anything because I know it wouldn’t help. She offers me some of her wine and of course I accept, she only buys the kind I like. In fact, if it weren’t for her, I’d probably never have found out I liked wine in the first place.
As she hands me a glass filled with the red liquid she asks how my night’s been. I want to tell her how great and amazing it was but I know by this point it wouldn’t cheer her up. It would just do the opposite so I tell her I’d just been sitting home all night with nothing to do. She says we can be bored together.
It’s funny the way how being “bored together” never really fits that phrase. If ever we’re bored, we don’t really feel together. We each step around the recesses of our own minds without really connecting for any length of time. If we feel together, we’re not bored. Me and her have a way of making each other laugh. Making the time go by. Making the wine disappear.
It’s that kind of happy drunkenness where you’re not really sure if your face is numb or if you’re just not paying enough attention to feel it. We had enough wine for most of the night to be a blur except for that general feeling of happiness and belongingness. Maybe that’s why I caved when she tried to kiss me. Maybe it was everything that happened before or the fact that I never truly got over her but was content with just being friends for fear I’d lose her completely. Maybe I just wanted a kiss so badly that night I didn’t care who it was.
Whatever it was, the music got turned up and the clothes got torn off. We hadn’t done this in three years but it was just as good if not better. We both got off several times and by the time we were done we were giggling giddly like it was our first times.
We both dozed off with smiles on our faces.

By the time I woke up, I had seven texts from you and three or four missed phone calls. You just saying you had a great time last night and you saying how I’m a great guy. Texting me a little smiley face :).
I replied telling you I had a great time, too, and how I hope we can do it again real soon. I almost forget where I am except when my belt jingles while I put my pants on, she wakes up. She smiles at me and tells me how last night was great and so am I and we should do it again sometime. I remember that I just fucked this girl because for three years I couldn’t have her or I was horny or drunk or whatever and I realize I’m just an asshole, too. I’m just a guy and it kills me to know it.
That’s why I wrote you this letter but I don’t think I’ll send it. I can’t bear to see your face when you read it or hear your voice when you tell me to fuck myself. It’s not the words I’m afraid of, it’s the tone. It’s the pain, contempt, and fright all mixed in that I can’t will myself to listen to even though I know you deserve to hear it. I can’t will myself to let you know you deserve better, that you deserve someone with the willpower to keep it in his goddamn pants.
I think I might love you… But I even feel too shitty to tell you that.

Sincerely,………