Carlos Typhoon
flash fiction
SHE DIDN’T LIKE HIM
She didn’t like him. And she knew she didn’t like him. But that didn’t explain why she knew that if he asked her out, she’d say YES.
He was arrogant. It wasn’t vanity; it was naivety. But it was in everything he did. She had gotten fed up with it once, and had accused him: “You think you’re better than everyone!” To which he had smiled, and with the slightest chuckle—a quick burst of air exhaled through happy lips—then responded: “Yes, I suppose I do.”
He was insensitive. He laughed at her pain, grinned as she struggled, and smirked whenever she made a mistake. An asshole…he was an asshole. It was like he wanted things to be hard for her, and got off on it when they actually were.
His attire was atrocious. So plain, so boring—one day indistinguishable from the next. I mean, who wears white t-shirts THAT often. It was like he had never heard of fashion, or style. He had been wearing the same type of clothes for the past 15 years—she knew this because she had asked him…and he had readily admitted it. “I bet you’ll be wearing this for the NEXT 15 years too,” she had hurled at him. To which he had replied: “I imagine I might be.”
He was lazy. He only worked three days a week. And it wasn’t like he was making good money—he only made enough to get by. He didn’t save for the future. And any money he did save was soon blown on a trip or on one of his “art projects.” She felt bad for him when he told her that he felt he should be willing to work shit jobs for the rest of his life and that he hoped he would be willing to if it came down to it.
He was quiet most of the time. …like to the point where it was almost creepy. But then every once in a while, a topic would come up that he would attack with way too much passion. …which was a whole other sort of weird. I mean, who has nothing to say about celebrity gossip, political scandals, or the shittiness of a friend’s coworker’s junkie ex-boyfriend, but then can’t shut up about architecture, political philosophy, or the state of the nation’s prisons.
She didn’t like him.
And she knew she didn’t like him.
But that didn’t explain why she desperately wanted him to ask her out…why she would scream into her pillow, “Just ask me out already!” She was baffled by the situation. It made no sense. Why did she want him to like her?
Why?
But then she realized…
She realized that if he liked her, it would change everything. He couldn’t be as bad as she thought he was, for she was too strong and passionate a person for someone so different to actually want to be with her. If he liked her, it meant he was much closer to her ideal man than she had imagined.
She realized that if he liked her, she could see his arrogance as confidence. His supposed lack of compassion could be seen as a desire to see her overcome adversity, and maintain composure while doing so. That lack of style could be seen as an embracement of necessity and simplicity. She could see his acceptance of destitution as an unwillingness to sellout; he was betting on himself and his “art projects,” for better or for worse. And maybe form following function, tyranny vs. liberty, and moral responsibility really were more important than starlets, politicians, or random castigations of degeneracy.
But what she didn’t realize was that he didn’t want someone who COULD see him the way he saw himself…he wanted someone who DID. This was why he hadn’t ever asked her out…and wasn’t ever going to. …not until she DID.
