The Hating Game

“I’ve booked a table for seven tonight. Bonito Brothers. You said you like it?”

There’s not much choice left then. It’s hard to get a reservation there. I try not to sigh.

“Bonito Brothers is good. Thanks. I won’t have a huge appetite but I’ll do my best. I’ll meet you there.”

“See you tonight.”

I hang up and sit facing the wall for a bit.

“Danny Fletcher has a clichéd evening in store for you. Italian restaurant, checkered tablecloth. Probably a candle. He’ll push the last meatball to you with his nose. Second date, right?”

“Let’s change the subject.” I pretend to start typing. My screen fills with error messages.

“Most guys would try for a kiss on the second date.”

That stops me in my tracks, and the look in my eye is probably crazy. The idea of Joshua making an effort on a second date is inconceivable. Joshua on a date, period.

I imagine Josh, seated across from a beautiful woman, laughing and smiling. The same smile he once gave me. His eyes lit up, anticipating a good-night kiss. I’ve got a dark ball of pressure burning in my chest. I try to clear my throat but it doesn’t work.

I’m not the only one looking a little crazy. “Just say it. You look like you’re about to explode.”

“Do yourself a favor and stay home tonight. You look terrible.”

“Thank you, Doctor Josh. Why does Fat Little Dick call you that, anyway?”

“Because my parents and brother are doctors. It’s his way of reminding me I’ve failed to reach my potential.” His tone indicates I am the town simpleton, and he gets to his feet. I trail after him down the hall toward the copy room. He doesn’t slow so I grab him by the arm.

“Wait a minute. I’m trying to fix this. You’re right, you know. I did come in here today hoping these last days together might be different.”

He opens his mouth, but I steamroll ahead. He’s letting me hold him against the wall, but we both know he could pick me up like a chess piece if he wanted to.

Some heeled shoes are clopping toward us sedately as a Clydesdale and my frustration mounts. I need to clear this up, now, or I am going to have an aneurism.

The cleaner’s closet will have to do. It’s thankfully unlocked, and I walk in and stand among the chemicals and vacuum cleaners.

“Get in here.”

He obeys reluctantly and I pull the door shut and lean on it. We remain silent as the heels round the corner and continue past.

“This is cozy.” Josh kicks his toe against a bulk quantity of toilet paper. “Well? What?”

“I’ve screwed up. I know I have.”

“There’s nothing to screw up. You’ve pissed me off. The status quo is maintained.”

He leans an elbow on a shelf to drag his hand tiredly through his hair, and his shirt slides up an inch or so out of his trouser waistband. We’re so close I can hear the fabric stretch and slide over his skin.

“I thought maybe the war might be over. I thought we might be friends.”

His eyes flash with disgust, so I might as well put it all out there. “Josh, I want to be friends with you. Or something. I have no idea why, because you’re awful.”

He holds up a finger. “There’s an interesting couple of words in among what you just said.”

“I say a lot of interesting words. And you never hear any of them.” I ball my hands until the knuckles crack, and the realization hits me across the head.

The reason for my rising distress is this: I will never see his hidden softness again. I think of his hands braced on either side of my pillow, talking me through the fever. His hands passing easily over my skin.

Right now he looks like he’d burn me at the stake. He was my friend once, for one delirious night, and it’s all I’ll ever get.