Things we say

(I never said I hated you.)
I’m sitting there, placid and far, far away, as you yell at me. You’re really going off, really giving it to me this time. “-never do anything! What do you do?” (“I am sorry for whatever whoever did,”) and the blood in your face seethes as I say this, but no one ever says what they want to. What I wanted to, or meant to say, was: “Shush darling, we’re being foolish. I’m sorry. I love you,” but those words only exist in my mind, and they’re spoken in a voice much more human than my own. “-even listening to me? Bastard!” My voice is dull and strained from work (“What name please? Location?–tap-tap-tap-May I connect you? What name please?”), where I say so many words in one day yet never really say anything at all. (“Baby, babe, bub, c’mon.”) You shaved your hair off and I didn’t raise a single protest, but maybe you wanted me to. “You fucking dolt! You look like shit! My God! Get naked right now! Now! Now!” (Sounds of frenzied love-making and shrill orgasms). People rarely say what you expect (want) them to–and the question was, “My son, what do you want to be when you’re older?” “Either a spy or a writer.” “That’s beyond ridiculous, next time, say doctor.”—there’s always a right answer, even if it’s wrong.

“You don’t put any effort or energy into anything!” / (“I hate myself when you’re sad. Aren’t I enough to make you happy?”)
“Routine baby, I’m just going through a rut, bear with me.” / (“You’re only realizing how insubstantial I am. Soon you’ll leave me. It’s my fault but I still love you.”)
“Do you even want me anymore?” You’re thinking about your old friends as you say this, the friends you’ve never told me about. They bullied you relentlessly, called you “ugly”, “bitch” and “slut”. I want to say: But you like who you are now, I know you do. Those bullies are just a part of that, they’re a part of you. If it weren’t for them, you would not be... I see the pain quivering in your eyes. I see that you’re humiliated but I have no idea why. I know that you’re hurting, and I’m young enough to think that this is all about us.
“I don’t know what I want anymore.” And, of course, there are wrong answers too.

You’re crying now, curled into a ball of grotesque limbs. Your face is covered by your hair, a featureless, shrieking ball. I really don’t know what I want, it changes daily. There are times when we’re in bed together and I think young love is the most beautiful thing. Other times I want to find a pistol, load it, and shoot myself in the face. Sometimes I say this out loud when I humiliate myself (-sound of crashing plates-“Jesus Christ! Someone find a gun, put six bullets in it and shoot me in the fucking face please!” “Did you hear that?” “Yes, don’t laugh, here he comes.” “His face isn’t so bad.”) I mostly wish to be dead when I work.

“What name please?”
Two fat women (one ageing junky, other a mother of five young sluts) sit in crowded breakout room, gossiping and cramming pastries into their gobs.
“Where did you say that was?”
(“Have you seen what Patty’s wearing today?”) Junky pokes finger into nose, finds large prize, excitedly rolls into ball and flicks away, comets into Patty’s hair.
“How were you spelling that?”
(“-papaya enzyme shower gel, can you believe it!?” “She’s just a feral bush pig.”) Mother of Five reaches discreetly down back of skirt, pulls panties out of ass, lifts away the lint between her cheeks.
“Sorry, which state was this in?”
(-sound of crashing plates-“Did you hear that?” “His face isn’t so bad.” “Hey, I got a way we can teach that Patty slut, got a pen?”) The note I found on my desk read: Don’t shoot yet! Your face isn’t so bad. Love, Patty.

People will always surprise me. Patty was, as I had assumed, a young Catholic woman of good moral standing. She had long, black hair. She had deep, black eyes. She wore appropriate business-casual clothes. Thus was my assessment of Patty before that moment—
“Please wait whilst I put you on hold.”
—and apparently, she thought I was handsome.
I spied her figure and felt lust surge through my body. I wasn’t sure if I was good for her, but I knew I was already in love, for she accepted me (“...beyond ridiculous...”). I tried to focus on my work:
“What name please?”
“The Hotel Rochester, thanks.”
(Her hair pressed lightly on her breasts and-)
“Eh? How were you spelling that?”
“H-O-T-E-L R-O-C-H-E-S-T-E-R.”
(-she really wore that dress. The way her body moved under it as she moved, her pale thighs would be soft-)
“Hello, operator?  Are you there?”
“Sorry, which state was this in?”
(-and welcoming to my mouth. Her lips were generous and purple, they would become tumescent in excitement as we shared our first, nervous kiss-)
“Oh mate, you can’t be serious. It’s the Hotel Rochester in-“
(-our breathing deep and unsteady, our hands reaching shyly around each other, our tongues pressing... I envisioned her breasts, her ass, her pubis and yes, her inevitable vagina-)
“-on planet Earth! All right? You got that?”
Patty must be on her next break because she leaves her desk and heads towards the staircase. This was her way of calling to me. She would wait for me in the stairwell, this was my chance.
“Please wait whilst I put you on hold.”
“On hold? OPERA-”
I threw my headphones to the ground and sprinted towards the staircase, bodies tumbling in my wake, others leaping awkwardly out of harms way, coffee spilling through the air and landing in pot plants. I yanked the stairwell door open and caught Patty as she was midway down.
“PATTY?” I shrieked, completely out of breath, sweating, eyes rabid with need. She seemed more startled than impressed.
“Yah?”
“I’m here about the note.”
“Wha-what note?”
“The note you left on my desk.”
“What note did I leave on your desk?”
“What note? Good grief woman! The note that said you loved me!” Spittle flew from my mouth and freckled her reddening cheeks.
“Said wha--?” She whispered as she involuntarily shielded her snatch.
“Don’t you want to fuck me!” Always a wrong answer.
“Ugh?”
“What’s the matter? Didn’t you leave a note on my desk saying that you love me?”
“Oh, ugh. What?” She was noticeably paler now, and she seemed weak on her feet.
“Did you leave that note for me?”
“Oh Lord no. I did not.”
“Damn! Well, how about it then?”
“How about what?”
“Well, I’m quite lonely and you look very good in that black dress (black panties, black pubic hair, dark nipples, oh God!) don’t you want me even a little?”
“Want you how?”
“Christ Almighty! Don’t you want to fuck me? C’mon, quick, I’ve still got a caller on the line.” I notice that urine is pressing through the folds of Patty’s fingers, which are steadfastly shielding her womanhood from this apparent rapist. People will always surprise me. Rejected, I returned to my desk and put my headphones back on.
“What name please?”
“YOU SONOFABITCH!”
“Ugh?”
“HOW CAN YOU TREAT YOUR CUSTOMERS THIS WAY?”
“Ugh? Oh, right. What was it then? Hotel Rwanda?”
“THAT’S ALL MOOT NOW, I’VE GOT A GUN AND IF WE EVER MEET I'M GOING TO KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”
“Oh really?”
“YES!”
“For real?”
“YES! YES!”
“FINE! YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION THEN! WHERE DO YOU LIVE? WHAT’S YOUR ADDRESS!”
“Ugh?”
“I SAID WHAT’S YOU ADDRESS I WANT TO DIE!”
“You’re tapped mate.”
“YEAH I’M FUCKED MATE! THE HOTEL ROCHESTER THEN. May I connect you?”
“Yes please.”
“Thank you.”
“Cheers operator.”

When I got to my desk the next day for work there was another note from Patty, though the handwriting was completely different. This one read: I’m not sure about yesterday, but I do want you. Love, Patty. Surprise, surprise. One month later, as we lay in bed together, you asked me what I wanted out of the entire world and I couldn’t answer because all I wanted was you. You thought I was trying to spare you feelings. Neither of us knew how the other felt and we just couldn’t admit it. We start to bicker over every little thing. One day you come in screaming, and I’m sitting there, placid and far, far away as you yell at me. What went unsaid led to this. It may have saved us. But no one ever says what they want to.