The sky looks bright and pink on one side, and dark and gloomy when I turn my head. There are still birds tweeting, even though it’s about 9 PM at night; other than that, and a few cars driving down the road in the distance, it’s quiet. There is a canal on the right side of me, next to the road I’m walking by; and a few high, old, victorian houses – the walls touching – on my left. No one’s home, and all the houses are dark inside; except for a few houses with old people watching tv in them, who, for some reason, never seem to close their curtains. The rain that the dark clouds caused, made everything smell like a combination of all the holidays I’ve ever been on. It’s not cold. It’s getting darker, and I’ve been outside for about half an hour when I get to his street, but it’s not cold. At the night of the party, it had been; I remember, because I had been shivering, and he had noticed and put his jacket around my shoulders.
He had been sitting right next to me, our legs touching. I couldn’t remember how we’d ended up like that; in the dark at 1 AM in the back of a garden, in a little arbor with a corner bench filled with people I knew, and a table decorated with lighters and cigarette packs. I’d been smoking my last one of the night when I’d felt his left hand on my leg. I knew I was supposed to tell him not to do that, but I’d been tipsy – maybe even drunk – and I’d wanted to feel attractive, so I’d let him.
I hated myself for that. I still hate myself, but I’m also wondering why he chose me that night, despite there being so many other girls there, who were not only single, but so much prettier and nicer and less complicated than me. As I get closer to his house, I start slowing down. I’m afraid that nothing will happen when I get to his house, but I might even be more afraid that something will; because I don’t know what I’ll do, if he comes outside and looks at me like he did that night.
Not long after he’d put his hand on my leg, I’d felt his other arm around my waist; and his right hand had been slowly moving down to my butt. He’d been properly feeling me up – his hand in the back pocket of my jeans – amongst everyone, but no one seemed to notice, except me. I’d pretended not to notice either; I’d found it kind of nice to have someone be interested in me, even though he’d been both drunk and high, which had clouded his judgment, and had therefore probably been mostly why he hit me up.
It’s still raining, but not as much as it was before. I don’t mind, I’m already soaked; but it’s not doing the way my hair looks any favours, and I’m painfully aware of that. It bothers me that I even care, but I can’t help it. If he comes out and sees me like this, he might regret that night, and even though I shouldn’t wish for him to be into me, I secretly do. I’d never been approached by him before, or anyone like him, for that matter; not like that. It had made me feel good, then – which is probably why I even let it get that far in the first place – and it’s the reason why I’m out there, in the rain, in front of his house.
It had been the only party during spring break, because we’d all been busy; and my friend had taken me there by car. I’d gratefully grabbed the jacket he’d given me and I’d pulled my legs up, so I could rest my chin on my knees to keep myself warm. His left hand had moved from my leg to my boob, which he’d touched shortly at first and more when I didn’t tell him to stop. I should have, I knew I should have, but I’d been amazed at the fact that he’d actually gone that far- and that he’d apparently wanted me in the first place.
Earlier tonight, before I subjected myself to God’s tears, I’d left my house after I’d accidentally smashed my favourite tea glass and spilled the contents all over my macbook. It had infuriated me, and it had just been the straw that broke the camel’s back for me; so I put on my cheap blue jeans, grabbed my highstreet brand faux leather jacket, left my phone in my room and walked out the door. I never planned on visiting his house; it was only after I’d already walked for fifteen minutes or so, that I realised that I could make a detour to his house on my way back home.
It had been about 1:30 AM on the night of the party when my friend finally told me that it was time to leave. I’d been relieved, because at that point I knew I couldn’t leave him there for no reason without him wanting more; and I was right. He’d followed me to the house when I’d been getting my coat; and he’d grabbed me in the kitchen, and pulled me closer. He’d leaned in, and that was when I realised what I’d been doing. I had told him no, to his face, and I’d hugged him instead. He had hugged me back, tightly, his hands on me, stroking my back, his face in my neck. I’d let go, and I’d left him there.
The orange colour of the blinking traffic lights is reflecting in the puddles on the street made by the rain. There isn’t anyone near me, only a few cars on the crossing street; which makes me feel more lonely, yet more connected to myself, than I’ve ever felt before. With my arms wrapped around me, my heart beating fast and my hair dripping, I’m standing in front of his house. I’m not sure what I want from him. I know everything I’m doing, is a mistake; but I don’t know how.
I take a deep breath, and I knock on his door.