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"You're ugly. You're neurotic. You're a bad writer."
James casts out these observations as if he were throwing darts and aiming for my eyes.
I say nothing.
He turns his back and staggers down the street. I see him wave to an oncoming car. The car turns out to be a cab. It slows down and James gets in. I watch the cab pick up speed and carry James past me.
I wonder if James will remember everything he said to me when he wakes up in the morning. He'll probably have a hangover, I assume. He'll probably feel more sorry for himself than for the things he said to me.
The shock of his words is evaporating. It's taken less and less time for the hurt to pass as the months have gone by. I realize there's no point in standing outside any longer. But I don't want to move just yet. I stay standing in front of my apartment building wearing an oversized T-shirt and a pair of underwear. The frigid concrete beneath my feet is causing my knees to shake.
I wonder why I jumped off the couch and practically sprinted to the intercom when I heard it buzzing. I knew it would be James. He was the only one who casually stopped by at 3 a.m.
I cross my arms and tilt my head back. I look up at the black sky and I realize I've missed the ending of "Kiss Of The Spider Woman" and that I'll have to rent the movie to watch what I couldn't catch on TV once James was there.
Tequila always turned my stomach. Even the smell of it makes me queasy. I am amazed at how James can drink it like holy water and how it turns him into the most erratic creature on Earth.
It wasn't so much what he had said. It's that he knew the truth. All along he could see right through me. He knew about all my insecurities. It only took him a few hours at a bar to build up the steam needed to voice the thoughts that go through my mind every single day.
He has infiltrated my self-hate. He had taken my well-worn mantras and drunkenly spit them out at my feet. How could I be angry with him for that?
I remember the telephone conversation I had with him last week. I had said I was convinced people had to be drunk before they could tolerate me. The next day James stayed home from work and the two of us talked on the phone for eight hours. He was sober the whole time.
I close my eyes and rest my chin on my chest. I let out a deep breath. I pivot on my right foot and walk towards the front door of the building.
I let myself in and turn to take one last look outside at the spot where tonight's drama had taken place.
I wonder if James got home OK. I wonder when he'll come over again.
The story TRUTH is Copyright 1998 by Wendy Boulding.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.