All Your Fates (Currently editing/updating)

Chapter 9: And a Dash of Pepper

Music: TRIBE CALLED RED: NATIVE PUPPY LOVE

MICHAEL PENN: IT'S NO MYTH

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David's POV

The next morning when I woke up, I stretched and rolled over on my lumpy futon mattress and thought: Some day, sooner than later, I will sleep more than a foot off the floor like grown men do. That was my first thought.

My second thought was about the girl from the flea market from yesterday. I wish I had found out her name. It would be nice not to have to continue calling her the-girl-from-the-flea-market but at least it was a step up from: the-girl-from-the-flyer. Perhaps someday I would be able to work myself up to: the-girl-I-met-once-and-it-was-a-total-disaster-but-now-she's-warming-up-to-me. But in the meantime, I decided to refer to her as, "Wonderbar." That's Swedish for wonderful, right? Right?

"VVVVVVONDERBARRRRRRRRHHHHH," I said out loud to myself ending with an airy hiss.

Iminloveiminloveiminlove! I beamed recalling Wonderbar's bewitching face with secrets pinned in the corners of her smile. Stop grinning, you fool, she thinks you're just a psycho in skinny jeans!

But I couldn't help myself. Merely basking in the glow of her glorious presence for all those minutes yesterday was enough to send me to the moon. Just as long as you remember, I advised myself, the sun never takes notice of the earth.

In other words: she is out of your league, dipshit.

Don't get me wrong. I don't make a habit of falling in love with any pretty little face that comes my way. Yes, I could be the type accused of falling too fast and too hard, and yes there was that one summer where I locked myself in my room listening to emo records for days on end, refusing to shower or bathe, after the night Mindy Williams broke my heart whilst we sipped on Slurpees on the curb in front of 7-11. But, it wasn't like I was the sort who was simply addicted to love. On the contrary, all the women I had ever loved were the finest specimens: full of grace, poise, intellect, beauty, and the pioneers in their respective fields. And completely untouchable. At least from where a guy like me was standing.

I groaned within. This infatuation was going to end up very painful to me. I could sense it. Call it intuition or my firm grasp on the Law of Averages.

Not that *this* could possibly go anywhere. How could my poor dear heart ever get its golden opportunity to shatter to smithereens when I was so far removed from Wonderbar's orbit? I knew nothing about her, not her name, her occupation, or present location. Only that she hailed from Swedenland. And as far as I knew, she took one good look at me last night and booked the first flight back.

Maybe she's on Facebook? I furrowed my brow in thought.

Ugh, David...let it go...it's useless. You will never see her again, and even if you did, she is sure to run the other direction the moment she lays eyes on your sorry ass.

I glanced at the clock and jumped up. Shit! I quickly changed into a fresh pair of Dr. Who undies, pulled a banana yellow knit cardigan over my turquoise tee featuring a retro movie poster of King Kong, and struggled into pair of indigo jeans topped with cowboy boots before running out the door.

By the time I hit the sidewalk outside of my apartment, I had convinced myself to slow the eff down. This time things were going to be different. This time I was going to work for Atticus on my own terms. No more running at his beck and call.

So I started for the campus at my leisure, even stopping for a big waffle breakfast at The Waffle on the way (it's not really on the way, but the name is awesome, plus I can window shop at Amoeba Music), knowing I'd pay for it later but determined to live dangerously. By the time I was finished, I was sporting a rather large pot belly that looked cartoonish on my too thin frame. Now that's attractive, Cletus. I stuck my front teeth out as I looked at my reflection in a window just to complete the look.