I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since she said we “needed a break.” I’ve been dreaming about this for chrissake, then it happens, and I can’t think of one fucking thing to say.

“Hello?” I manage to squeeze out, and almost regret it instantly because I sound like a goddam middle school kid hitting puberty.

“Sean? Is that you?”

She sounds confused. Sweet, angelic voice – same old Cecilia.

Suddenly I want to know why she’s calling; why now. After all this time. It hits me that she did ditch me at the mall today – yesterday – whenever.

But then I never would have met Joey.

That’s too much deep stuff right there. It’s like seven thirty in the morning.

“A-are you still there?”

Stuttering? Cecilia?

“Yeah.”

I fumble around for another cigarette. But of course I have none left. That’s just how my lucks been as of the day I was born.

“I – could…could you pick me up?”

…

This place is a fucking dump. If she was going to go to a party, she could have at least gone to a half-decent place. This place looks like it’s gone through three wars and a tornado. And it reeks – like trash, beer, weed, sex and shit.

When did I turn into such a hypocrite?

Cecilia is standing by the doorway, looking every bit like a hooker. I eye her from head to toe. It’s been two months and she’s practically unrecognizable – like a junkie from some bad made-for-TV movie about groupies. Her red hair looks like a fucking bird’s nest, she’s got makeup smeared all over the place, and she’s wearing fishnet stockings with some vintage-looking dress.

I’m suddenly reminded of Emily from the Corpse Bride. Tim fucking Burton – my childhood hero. The guy’s a genius. Cecilia’s just ruined him for me. I have the urge to tell her “thank you” very sarcastically.

But then I remember – all the good stuff. Cecilia when I first saw her, waking up with her lying on my chest. Good stuff.

This isn’t Cecilia. This is some…some thing.

She throws herself at me, and for some reason I want to drop her. I don’t even want to imagine where she’s been last night or what (or rather, who) she’s done. Syphilis, gonorrhoea, herpes – suddenly I’m back in junior high, sitting in health class making fun of all the lame Sex Ed videos from the eighties. She looks like the fucking poster child for an aids-carrying, disease-ridden “youth.”

She looks up at me, confused and with a pained expression on her face. I can practically smell whoever she was with off her clothes.

“Seanie,” she says, sticking out her bottom lip. It’s smeared with dark plum lipstick. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

She sounds like a cat. Did she always sound this pathetic? This stupid? You’re not mad at me, are you? I want to scream at her, Of course I’m mad you stupid bitch! You dump me, stand me up, call me at seven o’clock in the morning to pick you up from the fucking ghettos, and you want to know if I’m mad at you?

Not even Joey is that stupid, and she got hit by a fucking car while chasing after a streetcar. A streetcar!

What is it with everybody? Are they all on fucking my-head-is-fucking-messed-up-and-I’m-clearly-a-fucking-wanker pills or something?

Or is it just me? Maybe it’s because I’m not stoned or smashed right now and I’m seeing everything clearly for the first time in what must be a fucking year.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“FUCK!”

I practically chuck the helmet at her head. She looks scared, and I think to myself; good. No more fucking games. It’s fucking over after this. Over. I’m so fucking sick of all this bull shit and I sound like a fucking moron because I’m swearing so fucking much in my fucking head.

I can’t even think of anything better than fuck because I feel so fucking stressed.

Great.

And now I sound like I’m a PMSing woman.

I’m glad that we can’t talk because the bike’s engine is too loud. Thank god for my dad and his cheapness. This bike is a piece of shit but right now, its saving my ass from an awkward conversation. Although it feels weird having her arms wrapped around my waist again.

It’s kind of sick actually – like having a skeleton squeezing me to death.

Joey isn’t skinny. And I’ve seen her eat. Like really. Not just spin a salad around her fork and pretend to stick a leaf in every now and then.

Fuck.

I fucked up big time.

What else is fucking new?