Response to Prompt # 6 Cabinet of Dangers
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/11/prompt-6.html
"HELP!" I screamed out, if only in my head, as I was stared down by the overly attentive guy (Devon? Darin? Does it matter?) who refused to get the not-so-subtle hints to leave my house as I recovered from a wisdom tooth removal surgery. My puffy, bruised cheeks and mouth packed with cotton dressing were the only reasons I didn't verbally rip this guy a new one, but the hateful glares alone should have been enough.
A little background may help: I had been on three dates tops with this guy. He was, to put it mildly, a goofy guy who my grandmother worked with at Barnett Bank. Although I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, apparently this 20-year-old shooting star was the right brand of Christian to meet my grandmother's criteria and to convince my parents to let me date someone older. He wanted to introduce me to his parents on our first date. Uh, no thanks. And, can you wipe off your sweaty palms before you apply your death grip to my hand? In fact, may I have my hand back please?
And now, this. His refusal to leave my side after the surgery bordered on stalking, and I just wanted him to leave me the hell alone.
The doorbell rang. My exasperated mother went to see who else was coming to pay her daughter a visit, probably irritated that she would have one more annoying young adult under her feet.
"Annmarie," she called out. "Someone is at the door for you."
Really, mom? You can't show them in? But, then I thought better. This would be a short reprieve from D's (I really cannot remember this dude's name) beady eyes and sweaty everything, so I pulled myself up off the couch, and gingerly walked my drugged-up self to the door.
And there he stood. Bill. With a single red rose. Be still my beating heart.
More background: Bill was my much-sought-after co-worker at Ponderosa. To say this guy was hot is an understatement. He even made the vile brown and green striped polyester work uniform look good. We had been playing a weird cat and mouse game. He was the cat; I was the mouse. I liked him; he liked me. But, I wasn't his brand of girl. In other words, I didn't put out, and so we settled into a flirtatious friendship, me always wishing he'd see I was worth the wait.
So, you can imagine how weak in the knees I was when I saw him there with that rose. Then, reality hit me: I had Christian Stalker inside, preventing me from inviting the Dream Machine in.
GAAAAAH!
As I explained the fact that I had another visitor to Bill, I watched his face contort into an expression I had never thought I'd see from the cool-as-a-cucumber casanova. He looked rejected, sad even.
Double GAAAAAH!
As he left, head hanging, I closed the door and headed back into the family room, feeling quite irritated with the whole damn situation. I firmly kicked D out of my house and out of my life, despite the repeated desperate phone calls from him (and my grandmother). Again, can you say, "stalker?"
Bill and I worked together for a little while longer after that, but we never talked about that day.
And the rose sits pressed in my yearbook from 1987, a reminder that everything relies on timing, and our timing just wasn't good. On one hand, dangerous because it makes me fantasize about what could have been with Bill, a reminder of love not quite lost because it was never truly discovered. On the other hand, not dangerous because I'm sure the reality would not have lived up to the fantasy.
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