Making My Life Difficult

The date is 10/08/08.

I called Slim at 11:34AM. I had just rolled out of bed and was stumbling around in a semi-haze, but seeing as we'd agreed the night before, while BLATANTLY NOT MAKING OUT in his car (trust me, the lack of making-out was felt kilometers around as a shockwave that lasted multiple minutes), I was supposed to call him at 11:00, 11:30 at the latest.

So I dialled and waited. In a croak, I asked Slim's father if I could talk to his son. The man was kind enough to give me a pause long enough for me to cough and attempt to clear my throat. I was back in my room by now, with the phone, and feeling totally shitty.

"Urgh?" Slim's voice groaned on the line.

"Good morning sunshine," I croaked, and collapsed back on my bed, facedown.

"Hurglgh."

"I woke you up, didn't I?"

"You woke me up," he grunts, and I hear him shifting under his comforter, which I know is extremely soft. Because... well, I know.

"Huh... Huh, I don't even remember why I'm calling."

And it's true. I sit up with difficulty and wrack my sleepy brain, feeling like leftover macaroni.

Slowly, things piece themselves together again.

FLASHBACK 09/08/08

Slim is on MSN, and not replying. I'm bugging him because he told me he needed to go downtown give his CV to Archambault music store, and I need to figure out the train/bus/metro passes for next term, and the only place for information is downtown, presumably at the Berri-UQAM station.

HE was the one who had asked me, "Hey, I need to go downtown next week, wanna come with me?"

And I said, "Duh."

To which he had laughed and said, "I don't know why I even asked. Of course you do."

So we just needed to figure the whole thing out.

Of course, when Slim doesn't reply to instant messages, I get angry, and then I get paranoid, and then I get depressed. Angry because he's wasting my time, paranoid because he could be annoyed at ME for bugging him, and depressed because EVERYTHING is going WRONG.

Obviously, I'm slightly melodramatic.

Me: You busy?

Ten minutes later...

Me: I'll take that as a 'yes'.

Two hours later...

Me: Anyhow, if you're still interested in going downtown with me tomorrow, just give me a call or something. I'm going anyway, but some company would be nice. :)

No reply.

Two hours later, a sudden message pops up (I'd logged off and back on by now, having given up on Slim and wanting to end OUR WHOLE FRIENDSHIP BECAUSE HE OBVIOUSLY HATES ME):

Slim: CM, R U there?

Okay, I should have sulked. Instead, I went:

Me: Yup.
Slim: We're going to Isa's tonight, wanna come?
Me: Sure! I don't know where she lives, though.

Because I don't want to presume that he'll give me a lift, even though he now has a car to himself and all. And a new haircut that drives me completely up the wall (to quote Lyx, who saw a picture: "HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO RESIST HIM NOW?!??!!"), because he is mindblowingly gorgeous now.

Slim: I'm working on this at the very moment.
Me: Oh. Okay.

I noticed that Mitch was online, so I presumed Slim was asking Mitch, who is Isa's boyfriend. I didn't bug him myself.

Five minutes later...

Slim: All right, I have a location.
Me: Target in range Y/N?
Slim: Negative. She lives far away, near Iva's.
Me: Really? Oh. :s
Slim: I can lift you.
Me: Are you sure??
Slim: Yes, I have the car. Always, now.
Me: Well, yes, but do you WANT to? That's the new question we'll be asking now.
Slim: Sh-ure.
Me: Okay! Thank you!!! So... when should I expect you?
Slim: Meh, I'm leaving in fifteen minutes. Gotta stop at the bank for a withdrawal, then I'll be at your place.
Me: Alright. Better get dressed then. :p

He was there half an hour later, ringing at the door rather than calling me with his cell. People calling from their car when they're parked in your driveway to say they're there is a little ridiculous. I mean, really.

I opened the door and melted all over again.

He is so, so pretty now, standing there in the porchlight. I had trouble meeting his eyes.

"Give me a second," I say, "I'll just grab the cell and say bye."

"Okay."

I expect him to amble back to his car to wait, but when I return he's still standing there patiently, observing my every move. I slip on my running shoes, grab my bag, and follow him out the door.

"We have a long road tonight," he says, apparently delighted. Usually, anyone else whines about this.

But I'm kind of glad to be stuck in an aluminum box with a guy I could totally lock up into a small, secluded room to have my way with.

"Oooh," I say, to prevent from asking him to just park in a dark street so we can have a go at the next generation of children, "can I be your navigator??"

"Yes," he says, laughing, as we both sit in his car. "I even have a map." He pulls out a tiny scrap of paper and hands it to me with a snicker. "Here."

I eye it; it only contains a few scribbles. Having been Slim's friend for so long, I'm one of the few mortals who can decrypt it (sometimes I decrypt it because even the author can't anymore, that's how bad Slim's handwriting is).

"It's an address. 56... Adam?"

"Yup."

"That's not very... helpful."

"Don't worry," he says, buckling up, "I know where we're going anyway. You don't have to worry about anything."

He's right. He slips in a music compilation CD with soundtracks from movies, and for most of the ride, in between chatting (read: arguing about nothing important), he would put on an obscure track and say, "Identify the movie."

Seeing as most of them were classics, I figured them out fairly quickly, but he still managed to make me laugh by replaying the movie scenes (in the shitty French dubs) where the soundtracks played. He seemed in a beautifully cheerful mood, and I know why. He's done with daycamp, and only has one week of childcare to go.

Yeah, you read that right. He voluntarily signed up for the camp's childcare services. Meaning he watches the kids from 7:00AM to 9:00AM, then from 3:00PM to 6:00PM. It's pretty much the shittiest hours a guy can get, and he went for them anyway.

DO YOU SEE WHY I LOVE THIS GUY?

Anyhow, he wasn't lifting anyone else tonight. Just me. We found the place fairly easily, with minimal arguing (if you can call laughing 'arguing'), and greeted Isa happily.

She was having a fire in her backyard, and Ban, Michelle and Mitch were already there. I sprayed myself with bug-repellent, then chose one of the chairs in the circle between Ban and Mitch. There was one other chair next to me, and though most of the chairs around the fire were still free, Slim opted for the one neighbouring me, claiming that he wanted to keep talking with Ban.

It may seem stupid, but Slim is really bad at making up excuses, and when he's faking his tone and attitude change until they become way too casual and I-have-not-thought-this-through-like.

I'd know; he did the same thing with Renée back in the days.

Which so totally brings Rick's mysterious words to mind, about how Rick knew something about Slim that might interest me a lot.

Rather than gloat, I ignored Michelle's cynical raised brow (Michelle is cynical and bitchy about everything and everyone, so ignoring her is quite easy by now), and focused on catching up with Isa and Mitch.

PB showed up; so did Kels and Guy. It wasn't a large gathering, but it was certainly pleasant, and the night progressed slowly, with the guys play-fighting on the large trampoline in the backyard. Ban was talking about movies, and how drunk he was, and how his break-up was going (much better). PB and Mitch were fighting it out, Kels was humouring Ban, Michelle interrupted with a few sly comments, and Isa watched on with the quiet goodness that makes everyone love her for no rational reason.

Meanwhile, Slim and I were roasting marshmallows.

To be exact, he roasted the first two (we had large metal forks to work with, with place for two marshmallows on them).

I begged, "CANNA HAVE ONE?"

"No," he snapped with a glint in his eyes, "They're all mine."

"PLEASE?"

"NO."

He was making them turn to a crisp gold, with the patience and care of a professional. I urged him to make them catch fire, because they're so good when carbonized (and I derive simple pleasure from blowing the fire out), but he refused.

"No, you ignorant fool. I'm making them PERFECT. Anyone can burn a marshmallow, but not everyone can appreciate the golden beauty..."

He lifted the fork off the fire, and showed me the golden marshmallows.

"Which one do you want?"

I was surprised.

"Er... I dunno, I thought you―"

"Here, have this one. It's nicely cooked." He flipped the fork over so the treat in question was closer to my mouth. I reached out to try and pluck it from the spike, but Slim moved the fork away with a warning glare.

"Dude. Their centres are melted by now. You'll crush them, and stick your fingers."

I squinted at him. "Well, then what?"

He moved the fork towards my mouth again wordlessly. I sighed and rolled my eyes.

And lowered my mouth carefully to the big marshmallow, being careful not to touch the other one (they'd grown fatter in the heat, and were melting together). And I pulled it off with my lips and teeth, gently.

Slim watched me do this in silence, then said, as I let the marshmallow fill my mouth (okay, he was right: it WAS perfect), "See? THAT's how you roast a marshmallow." He then brought the other one to his own mouth and ate it right off the fork, like I had.

Kissing marshmallows. The ritual had made me so very aware of Slim's mouth, I actually grew flustered.

"Well," I said, warding off the heat (OF THE FIRE), "I want to burn mine. Can I borrow the fork?"

"You can get your own," Slim said, pointing to the only other fork nearby.

We battled with them, then decided food was more important.

So we roasted marshmallows most of the evening, and while Slim kept arguing that I was an idiot for burning them black, he always did shut up when came the time for me to sit back, watch the blue flame devour the sugar, and gently blow it out, then eat.

The kind of games he and I could play in a bedroom, I swear...

"So what are you guys doing tomorrow?" Ban inquires to the general crowd.

Most of them reply 'nothing', but Guy remarks he wants to go downtown, which is when Slim says, "Hey, CM and I are going downtown tomorrow as well."

I swear to god, an actual silence fell on the group as everyone turned to stare at Slim and I as we drank our coolers.

"What?" I ask, sincerely confused. I mean, it's not the first time Slim and I go downtown together...

"Like..." Michelle's look doesn't lie, and I'm stunned to see it replicated in PB, Ban, Kels and Mitch's faces.

She means, 'Like a date?'

I say, casually, but shooting Michelle a warning glare, "He needs to drop his CV off, and I need to check the transit passes. Nothing pleasant, but still necessary."

Everyone relaxed, then, but I could still feel residual tension until I asked Guy, "Hey, if you want you can come with us."

Guy looked reluctant, and the attention was diverted as he announced he was going with a girl, himself. But Slim and I were careful not to bring anything suspicious up again (and I noticed Slim did not hurry to insist on Guy's presence the next day).

I swear, the more time passes, and the more we get awkward signals from our friends.

Eventually, we got tired, and I noticed Slim signalling for us to get a move on. So we excused ourselves, said goodbye, and left.

He drove me home, and we were a flurry of words, unstoppable as usual. In fact, we had so much to say to each other that when he parked in my driveway, we just stopped the engine and kept talking in the dark, laughing and joking about horror stories and serial killers.

Until I said, "So... what are we doing tomorrow?"

And he said, "I don't know..." He was tired, I knew, and seemed like he'd want nothing more than sleep right where he was. "Actually, I'm just so tired, I can't even say I'll be up for it tomorrow."

This, in Slim vernacular, means, 'We should cancel the whole thing'. I know, I've seen it before, and I know Slim's body-language better than he knows it himself.

I am hit by a wave of disappointment, and decide I will no longer conceal it. "That means it's not going to happen, right?"

He doesn't let on that I'm wrong. "I don't know, CM, I'm just really tired right now."

I laugh, and I can't say it's devoid of fondness. "Oh, Slim, you're so easy to read. You're saying, 'We should reconsider it', when you mean to say, 'I don't want to anymore'."

He says, laughingly, "Yeah, you know, I won't get that job anyway, so what's the point?"

I slap his arm, annoyed. "Don't you dare say that! You'll never know until you try!"

He concedes this, but still looks exhausted. "You know, you should just call me tomorrow and I'll tell you then whether I'm up for it or not."

"God," I say, "Okay. I can see this. You're going to bail on me. I'm going to call you, Slim, but I already know what's going to happen. Either you're going to claim you're too tired, either you'll be tired all day and act whiny with me, neither of which appeals to me. So. We should reschedule. Unless you're calling the whole thing off."

He's laughing. "You sound pretty sure that you've got me figured out. Maybe I should prove you're wrong."

I give him a flat look. "But you won't, if I know you."

His face clears up, and he looks astonished and highly entertained. "You know, I've got YOU figured out. The only reason you're telling me this is to fire me up and MAKE me go with you tomorrow. You're trying to make me contradict you, so you're telling me EXACTLY what you DON'T want, in order to obtain what you DO want, because you know nothing makes me happier than to go against your expectations and predictions."

... Okay, he's a clever and all-knowing bastard. I hate mind-readers.

"Admit it," he gloats. "Just say it."

"Okay, yes," I concede, "you're right. I AM trying to manipulate you through contradiction."

"HAH. Knew it. Now tell me what it is that you really want."

I'm fighting the urge to say, "You. I want you. I want to kiss you until you can't breathe, then pump you until you breathe too hard."

And the truth is, I really WANT to kiss him. It's like a physical ache inside me right that moment.

Instead, I say, "I want to go downtown."

"And you'd like me to go with you."

"Yes, I want to go downtown, and preferably, it'd be with you. I want to spend time with you."

Oops, oops, shut up before you go too far, CM.

"Okay," he says, leaning away from me. I then notice we were almost forehead to forehead as we argued. His tone is one of finality, one of detachment, the way people echo 'FINE' at the end of an argument where no one is the victor. But he's also satisfied, like he obtained what he wanted to know from me.

"But I know it's not going to happen," I add into the silence, which prompts a sudden outraged but absolutely amused glare from Slim.

"There you go again!" He exclaims, and I notice then that we really DO sound like an old couple at this point, the way everyone says we do. "You're just trying to manipulate me, admit it!"

I laugh and lean forward towards him, and he turns to squint at me indignantly. "Yes, Slim, I seek only to manipulate you into doing things that are entirely against your will." I sober up a little and add, "The truth is, I really want to go tomorrow, and I have this terrible, OMINOUS feeling―" Slim started chuckling at the word 'ominous', "―that it's not going to happen. And that kind of makes me sad."

He finally says, "Look, just call me at eleven tomorrow morning. Nothing earlier. Earlier than eleven is inhuman."

I had said the exact same thing to him earlier tonight. Now he's just appropriating my words for himself!

"Um, obviously. In fact, I may not be fully awake by then either."

He sighs. "Listen, if you give me time to wake up and get ready, I'll probably be more willing than I am now."

I am in love with this guy. This statement above? It seems like just another sentence, but it means A LOT.

It means he's caved in and is just trying to acquiesce with dignity. He's making a compromise. Good man. I love compromises. They work for me.

"Well, obviously. Um... I'll call you at eleven thirty."

He rolls his eyes. "Okay, sleepy-pants."

"And now, we are both off to sleep. Good night," I say, and lean forward again. "Thank you for the lift," I say, cheerfully, kissing his cheek with far more confidence now than the day before.

"Mwah," he mumbles as I retreat, in reply to the kiss itself, squinting at me darkly as he realises that I know his mind better than I ought to.

I shoot him a bright smile, and right before I close the door, I say, gleefully, "Sweet dreams!"

"Sweet dreams to you too," he says through the open window. He starts up the engine again and rears out of my driveway. In a few bounds, I'm through the door. I turn around and make a face at him, just for the heck. He simply waves back and rolls away.

Back to 10/08/08.

"Oh, I remember now," I suddenly croak. "It's about... um... about the... the thing... Are you up for it?"

"Not yet," he yawns.

"Obviously," I say. "I mean..." I lay back on my bed. "I still have to take a shower and eat breakfast and make myself presentable... Are we taking the train?"

"Five bucks a ticket is a lot," he mumbles. His voice is gravelly. Kind of sexy.

"Right... so... uh..." I pull my arms high over my head, tensing my legs to wake them up.

"Just... come to my place for one o'clock," he commands, like he's tired of thinking. I hear a rustle of fabric on the line, and a soft sigh and groan. He's stretching too, on his bed. I was hoping my own stretching wasn't audible, but apparently I was wrong.

"You're stretching," I sigh contentedly. "It does feel nice," I comment, feeling the circulation increase in my limbs, and the muscles tense delightfully.

On the line, he's audible, a mild groan of satisfaction coming through his breath. I can imagine him so clearly in my mind, stretching like a large cat, tangled in his blue comforter, his white tee riding up on his stomach, his wrists and ankles at straight angles with his limbs, his eyes screwed shut in contentment, his mouth pulled into a tight-lipped smile, his hair sticking up weirdly, his chest rising with every deep breath...

I know him. I just do. My body knows. I'm doing the same.

Finally, he releases the tension and says, into the phone, with a satisfied mumble, "So, yeah. See you later."

"Okay," I say, sighing. "I'll call you before I leave."

"Good," he mumbles, and we both hang up.

When I did come up to his home, both garage doors were open, and his parents and sister were there, cleaning the large area. Slim was there, chatting with his father, and as I stepped out of the car, both his mother and sister greeted me cheerfully.

The first thing they asked me, by the way, was, "CM! Tell us what you think of Slim's new haircut!!"

They all eyed me expectantly.

I said, happily, "I really think he's cute like that!"

From behind Slim, who was eyeing me with a look I can't really define because it carried little meaning, Slim's father motioned exaggeratedly 'He's HANDSOME. HAND-SOME. SAY IT.'

"We like that he's clean-cut now," his mother comments.

"Thanks, Mom," Slim replies, his tone sarcastic.

A short chat with his family, and suddenly they all made themselves scarce, save for Slim. I followed him downstairs so he could grab a drumset piece he wanted to replace (a visit to Steve's music store was in order), and as he swiftly worked the keys and screws, his fingers familiar with all motions, I couldn't help myself. I said, "You know, your parents are right. You really are handsome."

He looked up, his brow furrowed, as though he was wondering where I'd hidden the insult in my statement. But I was honest, and he didn't seem to know what to make of it. So he shrugged awkwardly, and looked back down at his working hands. "I don't know... I didn't really fix my hair today..."

His profile is just beautiful. "You look like a really good guy now."

"You mean I don't look like a hobo," he jokingly comments. He brings a greasy hand up and brushes his cheek absently. "Didn't shave this morning, though." He returns to his work until he finally looses the piece he was looking for. It's the connection between his double-pedals.

"What's wrong with it?" I ask.

"Missing a screw, and it squeaks. I tried Jigaloo but it just keeps squeaking. It's a really bad distraction."

"Huh."

He hands it to me, and wipes his smeared hands with a dirty cloth. "Can you carry it in your bag? I won't have my backpack with me today."

"Sure, provided you give me a plastic bag for it."

He waggles a finger as we leave his drum room, and finds me a plastic bag. "Exploitation," he teases.

"You know it."

"Come on," he says, guiding me back outside, cheerfully, "let's get moving."

It's a beautiful sunny day. We listen to Dream Theater on the way over, singing along to Ministry of Lost Souls at the top of our lungs, until he parks behind Taco Bell (no parking fee, and no questions), and we walk to the Côte-Vertu station, buying tickets and finding seats in the metro. I chose a window seat, but there were plenty of empty seats to choose from.

Slim chose the one next to me rather than the one across.

The ride all the way down was silent, but we started talking again the moment we stepped back out into the sunlight, across the street from Archambault Musique. I handed Slim his CV (which I'd been carrying as well) and he filled in an application form.

We then walked back out onto the street, and strolled down Ste-Catherine street, aka one of the busiest boulevards in Montreal, discussing university, zombies, and the dream Slim had the night before (involving vampire bats and getting eaten alive... yeah, I know), until I spotted an Omer DeSerres, the ultimate art supplies store.

I had been telling Slim that if he wanted to, he was allowed to punch me for making really stupid comments when drunk. He'd raised a brow, fisted his hand.

And then he lifted it to his mouth, kissed it gently, and shot me a grin. He didn't even pretend to hit me. He just let it go.

Flustered, I asked Slim whether we could go into the art store, and he humoured me.

I was looking for one of those soft-tip markers, and found the Faber Castel brand. I didn't have money for a twelve-pack (65$), so I chose three colours from the individual selection, one red, one green, and one blue.

I was hesitating between two blues, though, so I turned to Slim then and held them up. One of them was cyan, and the other was more cobalt. "Pick one."

He blinked. "What? Why?"

"I want a blue one. But I don't know which one I should choose."

"Which one do you like most?"

"Both. That's why I'm asking you."

"You shouldn't be asking me. I make bad decisions."

"Just pick one," I said, exasperated, as we both laughed.

"I don't really see the difference," he finally said. "I mean, they're both blue."

"But one of them," I said, "is more cobalt, and one of them is more cyan. Which one do I want?" I turned back to the stand and examined them again, critically.

I swear to God that at that moment Slim mumbled something under his breath along the lines of "You want to have sex with me?"

I know, I couldn't believe my ears either.

But when I turned back asking, "I'm sorry? I didn't catch that?" he played innocent.

Too innocent. He even said, "No, nothing. It's not important."

I stayed bewildered, trying to make sense of what was going on. Then again, he was probably joking, obviously. He doesn't know the effect he has on me, let alone that his suggesting this would actually make me insane. He wouldn't be serious.

As though to avert any further questioning, he pointed at the cobalt blue pen and said, "That one. It's not as pale, but it's brighter."

"Brighter," I agreed.

"Yeah," he then picked the pens from my hands and started giving them voices. " 'Hi, I'm cobalt blue, and I'm bright'; 'Hi, I'm cyan blue and I'm not assertive enough'. There." By now we were both laughing like madpeople, ignoring the indignant looks of onlooking self-proclaimed artists. "You get it, though? One of them is dark but bright, and the other is pale but meh, not quite sure what to make of himself." He rambled on and on. "He has issues in school and the other pens make fun of him, even though he's a good guy, you know."

"Okay," I laughed, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him towards the cash, "shut up now."

"It's a sad, sad story, you know," Slim went on, and we were both snickering like fools, our chuckles resonating in the whole store. "Pens like him don't get much psychological support. If you donate to the Help the Under-Appreciated Pens foundation, we can help him."

We now have tears of mirth in our eyes. I am in love with him. So in love.

"Do you think they sell drum keys here?"

I said, thoughtfully, "I doubt it."

He laughed loudly as an image came to his mind. "No, they sell art supplies, nothing musical, except they mysteriously have a stock of drum keys between the colouring pencils and plastic cut-outs. Just the drum keys. Nothing else. People see them and go 'what the fuck?' " I laugh. He adds, "And, for a limited time only, buy five drum keys and get YOUR VERY OWN signed Tama five-piece drum set!"

"How convenient," I laughed. He was still wiping away tears of laughter from before. We didn't even care that everyone eyed us oddly.

We exchanged more stupid comments on our way out and towards Steve's Music Store. There, Slim bought a new twin-action pedal, fixed the piece that was squeaking, and picked up new sticks, a couple of drum keys and screws. He spent some two hundred dollars.

"Let's go home now," he said as we walked out. "I don't want to carry all this forever." He's cheerful as hell.

"Okay, but can we stop by some McDonald's on the way back? I'm starving."

"Sure, but... Well, if you'd rather, you can have supper back at my place, if you want... Mom said you were welcome."

"Really? You're sure?"

"Of course. She likes you." He says this so matter-of-factly, as though the idea of anything else occurring to me is outlandish and ridiculous.

So we made our way back through subway, then by car. His parents were glad to have me over.

"Are you sure I can stay?" I ask. "Slim told me I was welcome."

"Of course you're welcome," his mother declares. "Supper will be ready in half an hour."

"Perfect," Slim said, "that gives us time to start one of the movies."

He means the movies he made with the kids at daycamp. He's quite proud of them, and while the kids themselves aren't excellent actors, they manage to make things that obviously amuse them greatly. Slim's work is hilarious, and at many moments during playback, I'd suddenly burst out laughing.

One gag in particular made me suddenly bark with laughter, and Slim eyed me in wonder.

"Dude," he said, "I was the only one who thought that was funny! I edited it and thought it was funny, but no one else laughed! Except you."

"Are you kidding me?" I said, snickering, "that was great! The timing was perfect!"

He seemed pleased that the gag didn't go unnoticed and that he wasn't alone to think it was funny. In fact, he seemed amazed that I, of all people, would be the only one to laugh at the same joke as him without being forewarned that the joke was coming up.

We had supper, until Slim made me try out Defend Your Castle for Wii. Which really amuses me.

But then it was getting late. I preferred to get ready for a night out with the others. Slim's work in the morning pretty much keeps him from going out late at night, but I wasn't going to miss out. So I called Mom and told Slim, who was then gathering stars in Mario64 that I was going to wait outside.

I was about to lean down and thank him for everything, but he suddenly paused the game and exited. "Enough of this. Tired."

And he followed me down the stairs and outside. I walked past his front porch and onto the lawn, around the little pond. He followed confusedly, watching as I sat on the sidewalk.

"Why so far out?" He asked.

"I felt like it."

And it's true, there weren't any further motives. He sat down next to me, and before I could say anything, he suddenly said, "I wanna open the pedal box." And darted towards his car, where he'd left the boxes of his purchases. He looked like a little boy on Christmas day when he returned, and sat next to me again.

I watched his hands work at the cardboard cheerfully, the motions excited but careful. He has nimble fingers, but his hands do seem strong. And big. I'd caught myself staring at them more than once during the day, like when he was holding the steering wheel. He has a dusting of light brown hair on the back of his hands, and strong but narrow wrists, attached to forearms so sinewy they make me light-headed. Hands like that could pretty much make me pass out.

"Look at this little baby," he said, excitedly, as he carefully unwrapped the metal pedal.

I looked at him instead. His eyes were bright and happy as he manipulated his newest purchase.

He is so, so handsome. I wanted to kiss him.

I didn't even look at what he was doing with the pedal. I just looked at his face, at his expressions, the way his brows would furrow a split-second then relax the next.

"I can't believe I got a twin-effects for so cheap," he was saying, happily.

"Yeah, you were lucky."

"I know!" He looked up and grinned broadly at me.

Still, every time a car turned the corner and passed us, he would sober up and ask, softly, "Is that your lift?" Like he didn't want me to leave.

All day, I had been carrying a sheet of paper with me, folded neatly into my jeans pocket, with a list on it. Fourteen Reasons We Should Get Together. It goes like this:

1. You make me lose my words, so I actually have to write them down. Like this. I’m pretty sure I’d regain my speech abilities if we got together. And you don’t want me to be useless in an argument, do you?

2. We connect. Nobody connects like that. It’s unnatural. Staying friends would seem like a waste when we’ve got this kind of connection.

3. I’m not a girly-girl, and you’re not a macho-man. Neither of us is what the other finds annoying.

4. You have really soft lips. And beautiful hands. And a nice ass. And you’re handsome. I can’t help thinking about… yeah.

5. It’s fickle, but you really do make my heart go FWOOMP inside my chest.

6. You want a girl who will make the first move. I want a guy who will let me do what I want. And I want to make the first move. It works, see?

7. You’re a relationship guy, and I’m a relationship girl.

8. We wouldn’t have to wage wars against each other’s empire. We’d just rule it together, and that way I’d have more than just Saturn.

9. You don’t like tomatoes. I don’t like peppers. We can unite against red vegetables.

10. Our tastes and opinions are so similar that we already know what the other’s thinking with a single glance. It’s freaky, but it’s way more awesome than anything any one of our friends has ever known.

11. I don’t, in fact, think about other guys wanting to date me but not daring to because you’re in the picture. To be exact, I don’t give a damn.

12. People asking, insinuating, wondering or insisting to know about us dating is getting a little old, and us actually dating would most definitely be new.

13. Michelle told me, open quote, “It'd be weird if you had a boyfriend, but it wouldn't be weird if it were Slim.” End quote. I mean, come on. This is Michelle we’re talking about.

And if you're not convinced already, here is my last resort:

14. I love you.

I considered taking it out then. I really did.

But fate hates me.

Mom's car turned the corner.

So Slim and I stood. He was still excitedly talking about the pedal, until he noticed Mom. He stopped smiling gradually, until eventually he looked disappointed. I turned to him.

"So," I said, as cheerily as possible, "um, we'll talk. I still want you to see the Dark Knight, and we should go on five-bucks Tuesday. So..." I reach out to touch his shoulder, and I see him lean forward, as though he's waiting for the usual kiss on the cheek...

But Mom is looking at us, and I just can't, because I'd never hear the end of it. Mom has been asking more and more questions lately, like, 'When is he going to ask you out, already?'

So my hand trails down his sleeve slowly until I let go, and I smile at him, and he moves back, looking a little disappointed (!!!). He smiles back, a little sheepishly, but the bright spark in his eyes isn't there.

God, life sucks.

I turn towards Mom, and he waves at her politely, putting the pedal box back into his car trunk with the rest. He'll probably take everything in later.

"He looks sad," Mom comments. "Every time I see him when come pick you up, he looks sad and tired."

I frown. "What are you talking about?"

"Was he okay with you today?"

"Yes, more than okay. He was cheerful all along."

"Well, he looks sad now."

"Must be because I'm leaving," I joke, and Mom says nothing.

Seriously, what? I look back at Slim, but he's already heading back into his house. Poop, no way to judge.

Anyhow, I asked Mom to take me straight to the local bar, where everyone else was meeting up. I waited half an hour for them to show up (it was early), but pretty much everyone came in: Kels, Ban, Michelle, Rick, Drew, Fred, Mitch, Isa, AA, Melanie, Maria, PB, and even Gabe and one of his friends.

Gabe, by the way, is so totally flirting with me these days. It's kind of hilarious... considering that if I weren't in love with Slim, Gabe would probably also be my type. He's different from Slim in many ways, but he's quite charming. He's got wit to keep up with me, humour to take my jokes to new level, and we have a few points in common (example: he hates the taste of alcohol, but drinks anyway, like I do).

It helps that he's quite handsome too, and muscled like a soccer player (I have a thing for soccer players). That said, he's not as tall as Slim, and I even think he's exactly my height... without heels.

So I can't wear heels around him or I dwarf him. That sucks. At least I could wear my highest heels with Slim and he was still taller than me (I know, I know, we established already that Slim is perfect, but come on!).

We hung out until 1:45AM, laughing and getting excited over our plans for the remainder of the summer. As usual, people asked me where Slim was (for once, I knew), and why he wasn't there (no one whined about the reason for his absence being dumb, this time).

I ignored Michelle when she asked me "Did you buy condoms?" Her insinuations are just tasteless sometimes.

Slim and Michelle have a sort of hypocritical acquaintance going on. Every time I'm with one of them, they bitch against the other; Michelle says Slim is too much of a baby and a whiner; Slim says Michelle is too much of an anal-retentive bitch. Deciding who's right and wrong therefore becomes a game of choosing between the egg and the hen. I let them talk, but I tend to agree with Slim more. At least HE doesn't bitch against people he has no reason to hate.

So I ignored Michelle's comments on Slim's attitude, of late, and chat with Gabe and the boys. We had a real good time.

Finally, Drew offered me a lift home, along with Ban (since Ban and I live two minutes away from each other, we're a package deal), but not before Rick made sure I was free to hang out with him and Slim later this week.

So I stumbled home, and went to bed, and this is why you get such a late update.

Love,
CM