Just Wandering

“Just Wandering”
By Christine Stoddard
 
“You and I, Kelly, we think more than most people.”

“Stop being such a snob,” I muttered and coughed. He was smoking again, the asshole. He knew how much I hated it, how much it filled up my shriveled little lungs. Wasn’t I sick enough already? Surely Dale wanted to ignore the symptoms of heartache. Either that or he was convinced that I was a hypochondriac like everyone else in this wanna-be tie-wearing, Jaguar-driving world.
“All I’m saying…” His voice trailed off. It was a habit of his, like pathological smoking. He should have turned into a cigarette by now.
“I know what you’re saying. You don’t have to explain. I'm tired of listening to your raspy, know-it-all voice.”
“Moody, eh?” He took a long drag from his cigarette and stared at the moon, like a young Humphrey Bogart.
I jumped up and brushed the mulch off of my skirt. “You don’t look nearly as glamorous as you think you do.”
“Who said I was trying to look glamorous? If that’s what I wanted, I’d be sitting here in some faggotty sequined dress and lipstick, made up better than you in that ugly paisley dress.”
“Whatever.” I snatched the cigarette out of his mouth. “You’re trying to look cool and it’s pissing me off, Dale. Can't you stop smoking once and for all?”
He bolted up a few seconds later. In fact, his reaction was so delayed I could have sworn he was already dying of undiagnosed cancer. “Does every night have to end in a sermon?”
“This isn’t a sermon! This is your girlfriend--”
“Yes—“
“You’re the one lecturing me right now!” I shrieked. I tossed his hot cigarette to the ground and stomped on it like some rabid gopher. Besides, I didn’t like his comment on my paisley skirt. Not dress, skirt. Why did boys always confuse the two? They probably only grouped girl’s clothes in terms of difficult and easy access. In that case, skirts and dresses are the same.
“That was my last one, you bitch!” Dale’s eyes looked incredibly mean just then. Meaner than a rabid gopher’s.
“Well,” I spat, “You’d have more if you hadn’t smoked the rest of the carton—“
“I’ll smoke whatever the hell I want, whenever I want and you have no right to say anything about it.” It made me mad how handsome he looked in the starlight. It gave his eyes a corny gleam, like something out of a Cary Grant film. Wow, I wanted to kiss him and tear out his innards at the same time.
I paused and fingered my paisley skirt. It was bright purple short, cut with spaghetti straps. I didn’t usually wear short things but I did that night because I thought he would enjoy seeing my legs. Now I felt like I had cheated myself.  I should have gone with the usual paint-splattered jeans, even if he hated them. At least then I wouldn’t be cold.
“Hey, you’re right. But I’m not going to stick around if you keep on smoking like this.”
“So what? I’m tired of you, anyway. You’re worse than Janie.”
“Don’t talk about that little slut in my presence.”
“Pretty judgmental tonight.”
“I just don’t want you talking about her.”
“She’s no slut.”
“Hell, of course she is.”
“You’ve gone further than her.”
“So what? Only with one person. She’s probably been felt up by eighty-seven dweebs already.” I shuddered but tried to control it so Dale wouldn’t notice. I didn’t want to appear overly dramatic. Those kind of people irk me.
“Thirty-six, if you go by her last tally. Now, do you mind fetching me another box of cigarettes from the car?”
“No.”
Dale picked the blade of grass that balanced on his knee as he sat cross-legged. “No, what?”
“I’m not fetching it for you.” I made sure to curl my fingers into little bunny ears around the word ‘fetching.’ It was one of those cutesy gestures that irked him as much as it irked me.
“Look, Kelly,” Dale started, “I just want a smoke.”
“That’s not all you want.”
He gulped. “Why won’t you—“
“’Cause I said no.”
“Virginity’s for the birds. You've said it yourself.”
“What, is this 1959? Quick talking like some cool cat beatnik.”
“I am a cool cat beatnik.” He furrowed his brow, as if he was entertaining a profound thought. It annoyed me how often he did that, as if everything Dale Clyde, Junior considered was wider and deeper than the universe himself. Already I knew he was destined for a fancy liberal arts school.
“See? I told you that you were trying to act cool.”
“Uh-huh.” He crumpled the blade of grass between his pointer finger and thumb. If it had been daylight, I probably would have seen green smears all over his skin. But it was nighttime and we were on another crummy date because he was too miserly to take me anywhere that cost more than $1 admission. Dale would rather shell out his spare change on his affectionately called ‘smokes.’ Bastard. For once I wish he would revere the right character in all those black-and-white movies we watched.
“No,” Dale went on in his irritating drawl, “You said I was trying to look glamorous.”
“Cool. Glamorous. What difference does it make?”
“Pick up a dictionary.”
“I don’t feel like it.” I didn’t like reference books, truthfully. They made me feel like a push-over for consulting them. Like their ink and pages gave them an authority I myself could never have. Sorry I’m made out of flesh, not paper.
“You’re such a drip, Kelly.”
“I’m not the one always wiping my nose with the back of my sleeve.”
“Oooh! Nice come-back! Christ, you’re being immature.” It wasn’t the first time someone had described me that way. My mother insisted that I was still a little girl; my father refused to believe that I would ever grow up.
And why were all of these thoughts colliding in my head? Why couldn't I just focus on our conversation? Why did I have to observe every detail and make every comparison? “I’m mature enough.”
“To what? Ride a two-wheel bike?” I knew he was picturing me in one of my billowing sundresses, hair flying through the sky, as I pedaled nervously on a wooden doll bicycle.
“I’m breaking up with you,” I blurted, just like that. Although the statement surprised me, I didn’t even gasp afterwards. We both knew it was coming. I had written enough angst poetry about that.
“S’okay. At least I won’t have to see your ugly dresses anymore.”
“And I won’t have to see your ugly jeans. How old are those things again?”
“Not as old as our love.”
“Ooh! Burn! Newsflash: I was never in love with you.”
“Congratulations for finally becoming introspective.”
“I hate you.”
“The feeling, my dear, is mutual.”
I gritted my teeth and tore my necklace off. It was a gold, heart-shaped one he gave me for our six-month anniversary. Then I chucked it right in his face, the face whose every freckle and wrinkle I knew.
He scoffed as the necklace slid down his chest and crumpled in his lap. Squeezing the necklace in one hand, Dale flicked open his lighter with the other. Then he united the necklace and lighter, burning the chain.
I clenched my fists and pressed my foot hard against the ground. He wanted me to react. He wanted me to yell for him to stop. He wanted to know that our relationship still meant something to me.
But I did not respond. The chain began to melt, dripping into metallic beads that splattered into the ground. I should've known it was nothing but cheap nickel, anyway.
“Bye, Dale.” I said it flatly, as if the words themselves contained no meaning. I wasn’t bidding a long-time boyfriend farewell. I was issuing syllables to the summer breeze. This is the age of immateriality, after all.
He dropped the necklace, along with his jaw. The hurt in eyes almost made me want to apologize, but I didn’t. I whipped around and kept walking without ever once looking back. The spookiest mummy could have emerged from behind me and gripped my ankles like in some B-list horror movie, but I still wouldn’t have looked back. This time Dale and I were breaking up for real, no exceptions. I had drawn too many asterisks next to my conditions before.

[Read the rest of the story here.]