Part One: Her

A.N. An idea I had and have been toying around with. I'm not too impressed by it, but I don't think it turned out too badly. Let me know what you think! I apologize for the problems I had while uploading this as well!

It’s raining outside and I can hear it, the dull thudding sound of water connecting with hard concrete echoing throughout the restaurant. It’s constant and soothing to my ears as I strain myself, trying to take in as much as I can over the murmurs of the people that clash with the natural harmony. I look over at you, and you’re watching me intently, a soft smile on your face. You know what I’m doing, and there’s no need for me to try and hide it. I smile back at you, the only thing I could do, before returning my gaze to my plate. The once appetizing food, looking so pretty on a white china plate, is forgotten. I can’t eat it; how could I when my stomach is permanently entangled in a complex knot? My gaze flickers back to your face, and God you’re so handsome, and you’re still watching me. And those eyes of yours, those steel gray eyes that probe and search, are on me, watching me. I smile at you again, and you return it, but it doesn’t meet your eyes. You know something is bothering me, but as is your way, you don’t ask me about it. You know I’ll come to you when I’m ready.

You lean back in your chair, broad shoulders encased in a white button up shirt, immaculate as ever. The soft light plays off of your features, your angled jaw, your high cheekbones, your short dark brown hair. You’re so confident, eating with me, surrounded by the elite of the town. You should be; you’re one of them. Self-made money was what some of the girls in the dorm had called you once before I had yelled at them. You’re so much more than money, but you know that’s what people look for. The women who fall before your feet are captivated by your charm, by those gorgeous eyes, by your deep pockets. They look at you and they see comfort. They see luxury. They hear you speak and they swoon from the seductive baritone of your voice. That voice is intoxicating, seductive, so low and deep. God knows I’ve been a victim to it before. They want you to say sexy things to them and you oblige them, knowing if you spoke to them about business affairs they couldn’t comprehend you. They want you to be eternally seductive, your voice always husky with desire and power, but they don’t know what it’s like to hear the laughter in your voice. They don’t know the power you yield when you’re angry and your voice is so low and dangerous. I fight with you, my pride refusing to let me back down from you, but God knows my body trembles from your voice. Maybe you think it’s from repressed rage. For that, I consider it a blessing. The power you hold over me is so intoxicating and frightening simultaneously.

You’re no good for my sanity.

Sitting here with you, I feel my carefully constructed walls crack and crumble, falling apart stone by stone. There is something about you, something that surrounds you that makes me want to believe again, and I fight it constantly. I’m no good for you, and the love I feel can never be known. I look around this restaurant, I see the carefully molded smiles grace the porcelain faces of the women, and the arrogant postures of the men, and I feel intimidated. This isn’t my world, but it is yours. I know I cannot compete against the women who want you. I’m not polished. I’m not elegant. I’m a fumbling mess and I hate myself for it.

A blonde woman walks into the chandelier-lit room alone, her dress perfectly fitted, hugging perfect curves, and I watch as the males in the room shift to watch her. She knows the power she holds over them with her large chest and endlessly long legs, and she smirks to herself as she walks past our table. But she sees you and she stops minutely, her eyes undressing you. You return her gaze, one eyebrow arrogantly lifted, and she smiles at you, inviting and enticing and her message is clear.

You’re wealthy enough to fuck me.

She saunters away, her hips deliberately swaying because she knows you’re watching her, and I can feel my heart crash inside my chest. She’s so perfect, and God knows I could never be like her. My legs are shapely, but so much shorter than hers. My stomach is a little more rounded than it should be, and my chest isn’t as big or as perfectly shaped as hers. Her hands are elegant, her nails perfectly manicured, and I rub the calluses that mar my palms. My fingernails are short, bitten and torn because of my own horrible habit of needing something inside my mouth at all times. I feel ugly in my crimson dress, one of the few pieces of clothing I own that could pass in such a place as this. Women like her live for money, for men wealthy enough to support her, knowing that she can have her pick of the men of the world. And tonight, it seems, she chose you.

Are you going to get her number before we leave, I wonder? Are you going to take me home to my small apartment and leave me with a quick wave before going to get her? Are you going to fuck her in your bed, sampling what she has to offer over and over again? She’ll seduce you, and I’ll lie in my own bed, hidden beneath cotton covers, wondering what you’re doing, and hating myself for it. She’ll give you such pleasure, more than I ever could. We both know I’m a mess romantically. I’m too cynical, to harsh. But the beauty queen could give you what you want.

You look over at me again, and I smile softly. Now you know something is wrong, but still you won’t ask me. In a way, I want you to. I want to pull you outside, sit in your car, and have you drive us away from this place, from her. I want to yell, to scream at you. I’m not perfect, I never will be. But I love you. I want you. I know you more than any of those perfect women could. I know the heartache that comes from seeing you upset, seeing you unable to relax because you’re so work-oriented. I know what it’s like to hear you laugh and mean it. I know what it feels like to be with you; your guard down, and you’re only the man I call my friend instead of the gorgeous corporate genius that the world loves.

I love you.

But I can’t have you.

I’d ruin you.

I’m not perfect. My hands are never elegant and always dirty from work. I’m too cynical, too sarcastic. My hair never falls the right way and I know my body is revolting. I’m too heavy, never slender and graceful like the women who beg you to become their lover. I’m a mess, and I’d only embarrass you. Christ knows I’d end up looking ridiculous by your side. I know how vicious people can be. I know what they’d say.

Look at him, so gorgeous, with that plain, pathetic creature. He must feel bad for her.

I’d die before I let them say that.

You do something to me, and I hate myself for it. I’m not good enough for you, but still I fell for you. I know your quirks; I know what you’re really feeling. Your eyes can hide so much, but not from me. Never from me. I know that sometimes, you hate how women throw themselves at you because of your money; how you wish someone could see how you really are. You’re not perfect. You never were. But I love you despite that.

I wish I could be the woman for you. But I’d only embarrass you. I’m not from your world. I’m too arrogant, too enraptured with my own academics to fit into that world. What do I care of fashion or makeup? I know how plain I am, and I know that I could never become one of those women. I could never try. Instead I’m myself, my own worst enemy.

Sometimes I wish you would look at me like you do some of those pretty girls, with stark desire swimming in those molten gray eyes of yours. At night, I see those eyes in my dreams, and every morning, I wake up crying, though I’d die before admitting that to you. You haunt me, but God how I love it so. You’re such a sweet torment. But I don’t know how much more I can take before my heart shatters completely.

You make me believe in something again. You make me want something again. You opened my cold heart, allowed me to feel love, and now I’m left to suffer. I love you, but we can never be.

I hate you for that.