Disclaimers: The boys do not belong to me. Borrowed without
permission.
Comments welcome at jb7811@comcast.net
Notes: This is very, *very* short, but even so, the lovely and
talented Nicole, Melissa, Zen, and Mouse offered helpful suggestions, beta,
and unflagging support. This is for them.
No spoilers for the film. Takes place before the break-up.
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Your rejection's intoxicating
My high is incomplete
--from "Sparkle & Shine" by Econoline Crush
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There he goes again, got his panties in a bunch about something or other. He's giving me the silent treatment, thinking I give a shit. Not too smart. I can out wait him, always could. I get a kick out of his little games. This one's an old favorite, pushing me away and then shooting me hot looks when he knows I'm watching, then pretending not to notice when I catch him at it. I try not to laugh in his face because that makes him sulky, and he quits playing when he gets sulky.
And that's not a fun game. He tends to sulk in private, crawls off in a corner and won't return my calls. I can't stand it when he pulls his disappearing act. I have to have him with me, so that I can fully enjoy this aching hole in my gut. If he's not *here*, then what's the fuckin' point? He's got to see me, too--see the anger and the pain and maybe feel it with me.
What does that make me, huh? I've been called all manner of freak so one more label won't make much difference. I like the pain, like what he does to me--so the fuck what? It works for me and he doesn't complain--too much. When he does, I tell him to shut the fuck up 'cause he knows he likes it. The great thing is, that actually works most of the time.
Now, he's smarter than me in some ways, but I'm smart in *his* ways. I know him better than he knows himself. He likes to think he's deep and mysterious and so fuckin' sensitive, 'cause the chicks go for it. But I know... I know what he really wants.
He wants *me*. He just has to play the games so that he never has to *admit* it, to me or himself or anyone else. I don't have a problem with that. I'm not about to go holding hands in public either--although the occasional kiss on stage is a whole different thing. The way he *almost* turns away, but doesn't, lets me know what's what with him. He wants it, but he doesn't *want* to want it.
Like I said, the man is smart. He can argue circles around me--in private. But in public, he backs right down and gives over to me, with that exasperated I-can't-do-nothing-with-him look on his face. Most of the time that's what he does. I like it. Who wouldn't want Billy to submit to him? But what I really love is when he gets mouthy. When he gets up in my face, yelling, his breath is hot on my mouth. I can almost taste him...but not quite. His skinny body twitches and his eyes go squinty and narrow. Ah, I do love that--when I can put my hands on him, shoving and pulling and getting that shot of adrenaline, sharp as a hit. He knows how much I like it, and that's why he holds that back as his trump card. The game-winning play is when we fight hardest and loudest, and he knows he's got me.
Yeah, he's got me, and I've almost got him. I'll never really have him--own him the way I want to, so I gotta enjoy the games. It doesn't matter that nobody wins, just that we keep playing. 'Cause if we quit playing...then what's the point?
The End.