Love on Wheelz

She was supposed to come Friday. I got all dressed up and got my dad to get me on my chair. I planned to tell her I liked her. I’d never told any girl I liked her, why would I ever do that? I could get rejected. Hell, I probably would get rejected. And why would anyone ever subject themselves to that? The only thing worse than rejection is cancer. That, and Canada.

But that was going to change. I had to improve myself socially for my sake. For my sanity. There’s only so many lonely Friday nights I can take before I go on a homicidal rampage with an AK-47 while screaming, “WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME?!?!?!”. It wears on you. You begin to wonder if there’s something wrong with you. So I was going to get better.

But it was 10:30 and she was supposed be there at 10.

“Hey, you coming?” I texted her. I paced frantically back and forth, I didn’t think she was coming. I wasn’t happy, I had gotten all excited and psyched for to tell her. I even had a whole speech planned out, but it was all for naught. It would have to be another time. Another LATER time. I hate later and I really hate when people say they’re coming and don’t. So I went back to bed and got back on the computer. Just like every other Friday night.

My phone rang, “Hey, I got pulled over. I don’t think I can make it, dude. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.”

“Alright, it’s cool. We can watch the UFC fight. You okay, though?”

“Sure. Yeah, I’m really really sorry.”

I could forgive her for that. Getting pulled over is a legitimate excuse, I think. And I could wait one day. I could do that. My mind raced with thoughts of her that night. I could not wait until the next day.

***

“Hey, you wanna watch the UFC fight tonight?” She had told me she liked it, it’s not like I was inviting her to play Super Mario or anything.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be over after work.”

I called my uncle to ask him if I could order the fight at his house, got on my chair, washed my face (twice), brushed my teeth (thrice) and spritzed on my pimpin’ armany cologne. I hate cologne. It only comes out on super special occassions. Like going to the strip club. Then I started doing what I always do when I’m waiting. I paced. I paced in my room then in the kitchen then in living room then in front of the window. Not because I was looking for her to pull in the driveway, of course. I was looking at the nonexistant birds in the nonexistant trees.

I waited in my chair up to and through the whole UFC fight. I watched it with my dad waiting for my phone to ring. My mood went from giddy and excited to peeved and disillusioned.

I always give people the benefit of the doubt. I assume that that they’re good and trustworthy until they prove otherwise. She hadn’t done this before, but I don’t like being stood up twice in a row. And I don’t like being stood up and not getting an explanation. I made a conscious effort not to tolerate flakiness ever since the whole Pedro saga where he repeatedly stood me up and left me hanging for months at a time.

It was her second strike, so I wasn’t going to be the one to make contact. I wouldn’t ignore her calls or anything, but she had to be the one to call. Hopefully she cared enough to call because I still liked her.

***

“Hey, pimp. Roxanne told me to tell you that she’s really sorry about the other weekend. That her car broke down and she lost her cell phone and got pulled over.” said Nick.

“Uh… okay. I guess that’s forgivable. But why did she tell you and not me?”

“I don’t know, dude. I’m just relaying the message.”

“Okay, thanks dude.” That counted as contact in my mind. So I invited her out on Sunday. I hadn’t seen her in two weeks, but she’d never left my mind. Despite that, I was worried that I had built up an idealized image of her, so I decided that I was going to hold off on telling her how I felt. Because I wasn’t so sure anymore.