Abigail’s Pet Project

Friday morning. Very hard. totally distracted and unable to work. Why? Because I was/am thinking thoughts along the lines of:

I’m sitting in a coffee shop with Abigail. She’s my girlfriend (or so people think). She’s not talking. We’ve been sitting in silence for a while, and finally I’m talking.

“You know, it’s hot to be,” I nervously sigh, “you know, paying for “it” .. when you’re my girlfriend …but Abigail, it’s getting difficult, increasingly so”.

I stop. I’m waiting for Abigail to speak. She says nothing. At some point she gazes out the window and I start to continue but now I’m mumbling,

“Yes I know, we both know, you’re very bad for me and so why am I complaining about how bad things are getting when that’s just how things are and will always be so — I don’t know … it’s like this is getting too serious and …”

I stop again. She’s seems to be looking at shops across the parking lot. There’s a bank there. My bank. She doesn’t look back at me. The silence goes on and on. She’s not staring at the bank, I can see her eyes following the movement of people. But the bank is there. Bit in my lower lip I finally get up. She doesn’t react. Still doesn’t look at me. I walk out around the tables of normal people to the door. I hang on to the arousal of this moment, thinking about her smiling as I come into view walking toward the bank - but as I push through the door I hear her strike up an animated conversation with one of the male barista’s . I’m squirming inside, blood rushing to my cock. To my face. It’s a long walk. I feel numb out in the heat. I don’t want to let myself feel anything. Just get it done. I’m angry that the arousal of the moment has gone, but underneath that something still squirms. At the bank I get the two hundred dollars and then add another hundred for, I tell myself, the present I’m getting for my mother. I go back. Through the window I can see her still talking to the guy. Smiling, happy. Sexy. Very sexy.

I push the door open, she doesn’t look at me. But he does and he excuses himself. As I sit I start to open my wallet but she frowns at me, and immediately I stop. Still standing I hand her my wallet. I can’t look. At the wallet, at her, at anyone. I don’t want to find the barista watching me. If he is, I’d rather not know. So I stare out the window, across the parking lot. I wonder if she knows how little is left. Part of me knows she knows. Part of me is fearful that she does not. Most of me is getting drunk on my fucked up confusion about everything.

“Sit down”.

The warm words snap me out of it and I return the smile. More blood rushes. I sit.

Abigail hands me the wallet. It’s there in my hands, but I can’t help looking. There’s still money in there. It looks like a hundred. I look up at her. She’s smiling and frowning quizzically.

“Something wrong?”.

I don’t know what to say. It’s that look. Completely unreadable. I know on one level she’s just waiting to see if I give it to her, but on another - this is so like her, the most excruciatingly compassionate cruelty - she could have taken it all. I would not have stopped her. It would have been hot, controlling, nasty. But she didn’t. She knows how bad things are for me financially. Doesn’t she? That’s why she left the hundred alone. I think. But, she’s looking at me. She knows what might happen. But I don’t know, I never know what she wants. I know , more or less that if I close my wallet and leave the cash in there for me that she won’t express disappointment. I won’t even see it in her face, her eyes, even for an instant. But here we are. And in situations like this - not the same but similar - choice type situations, I’ve done the equivalent of keeping the money, and of course I’ve also done the opposite. So there are no rules, no guidelines here. Moments like hours pass, and then a flick of the tongue, a brief wetness of her lips, nothing about it seeming premeditated, just something she did and I’m lost. I swallow, close my eyes and begin to hand the wallet to her.

“Take it out”.

The tone is ice cold and my eyes flash open looking at her. Her face is deathly serious. And I’m in free fall internally and I’m sliding the notes out.

“Count them”

I question for the barest instant with my eyes, then I’m counting them out.

“Twenty, forty …. “.

There’s one hundred dollars there on the table between us.

“You’re so sweet”.

The smile and warm wet tone almost blunting the condescension. Almost. White hot.

She stands. So I stand too. The money is still there. She’s making to leave. And maybe because I feel the scene, if that is what it was, is over and I ask simply,

“What about the money ?”

She smiles, amused at my confusion.

“That’s the tip for Antonio,silly. So he can buy me dinner at Miguel’s tonight”

The white heat is now boiling up inside me. I’m falling apart and yet coming together completely at the same time. The rush of deep sadness cut through with searing arousal. And with sincere displeasure not loud, but far too loud for my comfort,

“What? Why do you care? You’re going to be busy with your own nasty selfish needs all day, all night and all morning”.

Her disgusted expression is fixed on me. Then disgust vanishes, and there beneath it, or as a mask on top is the smiling sexy softness the melts me every time,

“Aren’t you?”

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