Usually very smooth, Dylan was visibly shaken. He jumped up from the staff desk, spilling papers and pencils across the floor. Then he slipped on one of the pencils as he rushed around the desk catching himself before falling. He ran to her and hugged her desperately.
After several minutes of excited catching up he walked her over to the staff desk. He couldn't speak correctly when he motioned toward me.
“Misty, I'd guess,” I said holding out my hand. She nodded and took it, her bracelets tinkled musically as she squeezed. Her hands was soft and small; fragile even. “I'm Rick.”
“Nice to meet you.” Her voice was very soft, nearly inaudible.
“Visiting?” I asked.
Dylan found his voice and jumped in. “She's moving back here. She's enrolling in school again.”
“Which program?” I asked.
She looked at me and smiled. At least I think it was a smile because her mouth was framed by cute upturned corners favored in models and actresses.
“I'm not sure what I want to study. I'll start here at the Community College and get some general requirements out of the way.”
“Isn't that great?” Dylan asked.
“Yes, it's great.”
That's what she did over the next few weeks. She enrolled in school and got an apartment despite Dylan's pleading that she just move into our place. Misty assured him that she was very much enthralled with him, but she was used to her independence and from the looks of it she was right. She had a brand new truck: a Chevy Blazer. She wore a lot of gold and gems. Her clothes were obviously expensive and I don't think I saw her wear a pair of shoes twice. She was definitely used to a different kind of lifestyle than what a bachelor pad in a residential neighborhood could offer.
But her independence and possessions were just the beginning. When I saw her she didn't seem to have much to talk about once conversation about money and its trappings were exhausted. She'd talk about people she'd met out in California who had sportscars or luxury Rolls Royce's, large beautiful houses, jewelry and clothes, and who threw magnificent parties where attendees expected to be seen by important people. It didn't seem to me that Dylan had anything to offer aside from his personality and a beat-up twenty-year old Harley Davidson Sportster.
Dylan did have one other thing to offer Misty and it was the one thing she craved: Worship. He would do anything for her, no matter when she called or what she wanted. He was across town in a moment to help her hang posters or to give her a ride when she'd had too much to drink. If she wanted to talk he'd drop everything and listen intently, hanging on her words.
His devotion was rewarded, of course. She spent the night with him once or twice a week, always showing up at midnight or later, often drunk and frequently high. Many mornings as I got ready to go to work or school I'd meet up with her in the kitchen and we'd share some coffee while Dylan slept in his bed, satisfied in his Utopian dreams.
One such morning we had a real conversation. It was our first.
“I've never seen Dylan so devoted,” I said.
“I know. He really loves me.”
“Yes, he does. You love him too, don't you?”
“Of course I love him. He's a great guy. But maybe I can't love him as much as he loves me,” she said.
“That's honest. I don't think his kind of love is easily matched. He'd do anything for you.”
“I know,” she said sadly.
“He's going to get hurt isn't he?”
“Yes. I'm afraid so.”
<< insert suspense trumpets >>
Posted by: bex | Monday, 02 June 2008 at 09:59 AM
I hate her already! Poor Dylan!
Posted by: Cherise | Monday, 02 June 2008 at 03:16 PM
no it's NOT her fault. it is dylan's fault. if men can't stop drooling over some long hair and legs that's THEIR problem. i'm not being cold here. i just have seen it far too often. plus, dylan HAD to have known what was going to happen. he either didn't care OR he just put it in the vault out back and denied it out front
Posted by: a rose is a rose | Monday, 02 June 2008 at 05:02 PM
The story will unfold and no one remains blameless. Today I feel sorry for the both of them.
Posted by: CV Rick | Monday, 02 June 2008 at 07:26 PM
I'm sorry Rose, but for her to know how much he loves her and for her to use that love to get what she wants knowing she's gonna hurt him all along makes her a using bitch. I am not saying Dylan isn't at fault at all...because he is. But she's the one that knows the whole score.
Posted by: Cherise | Tuesday, 03 June 2008 at 08:03 AM
i'm not denying she's at fault. today i saw this 15 or 16 or 17 year old in a coffee shop on my way home from work. she had long blond hair (which needed washing) and a face full of makeup (which needed touching up). she had high heeled boots on, jeans that were tight and showed her thong and a very short belly shirt that had the playboy bunny symbol on it. she could barely walk because she was so drunk or stoned. i know every man that saw her wanted to do the nasty with her. all i wanted to do was give her a bath AND a lecture. was it her fault? well partially sure. but why would adult men want to sleep with a drunken teenager? because she had a great body? maybe. i know it isn't because she had a great mind.
i know love is blind cherise. however, i've heard one too many 'but i love hims' from women who have had the shite beaten out of them. who's at fault? we ALL are for not raising our daughters and sons with souls, morals and a conscience. for not teaching out daughters they don't have to wear playboy tees in order to attract mates. for not teaching our sons to respect grrrls and women
Posted by: a rose is a rose | Wednesday, 04 June 2008 at 05:17 PM