But why should I be the masochist? I'm the one who broke it off. I liked him because he was cute and the sex was good — little more — which is why I got bored. I never really knew if he was hurt or not (and if I did know would I care? should I care?). Sure, I guess I treated him like an object — but then that's how he treated me — so why should I feel guilty or masochistic or even the need for justification (but, in the words of a popular television character, "We're women; we have double standards to live up to.")?
"Hi, Trevor."
The group falls quiet and Trevor takes a drink before replying. He's wearing a bowler and some sort of jumpsuit — I assume he's trying to be an A Clockwork Orange droog, but it's a pretty lame costume.
"How you doing, Lise?"
"I'm fine."
He nods, takes another sip of his beer.
Awkward silence.
"Feeling a bit trapped?" pipes up one of his friends.
"Pardon me?"
"Trapped in a box?" and he makes hand-pressing motions against invisible walls as the group laughs, Trevor most of all, it seems.
What's the point.
In being civil. Being civilized.
I head back to the table with the punch. Refill my glass.
I got the trapped-in-a-box line yet another time, from another guy man I didn't know. I felt like kicking him (violence) but didn't because I thought he was cute. Or maybe it was because he was cute that I felt like kicking him. Anyway, third time's the charm — I decided to leave.
"But the party's just getting started," Dennis protested (he was wearing a big hat and had his right hand stuck inside his jacket), as he walked me to the front door. "You can't leave now. And you shouldn't drive, you know," he reprimanded me, swaying. "Not after drinking."
"I didn't drive, Dennis," I told him. "I only live a half-hour away – you know that. I don't even own a car, for Christ's sake!"
"You mean you're walking?"
"Yes."
"But you can't walk home by yourself!"
I pushed past him, out the door; "Watch me," I said.
"You're tempting fate!" he called after me, worriedly, drunkenly watching as I stomped across his front lawn. I heard Angela's voice from inside the house and Dennis calling something to her. Then, no doubt, they were both watching me, smarmy drunken concern upon their yuppie faces and there was no way in hell I'd turn around, give them the satisfaction of...whatever...admitting I was being stupid...
THAT WHICH DOES NOT KILL ME ONLY SERVES TO MAKE ME STRONGER.
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