The Budding Roses

The Dance

Friday 19th February
As with any proper romantic story there should always be a dance, and therefore to celebrate my coming of age, things will be no different here.

Harry has realised what an idiot he's been and has been eager to make amends. Not wanting to appear too keen or easy to forgive, I, quite rightly, delayed my answer before, okay, relenting and agreeing to make up. I can see that he's really thought about what he's done, and he's figured that I'm actually one hell of a catch for someone like him.

What's that, you don't believe me? You think I'm telling lies, and not just ordinary little white lies, but big black vacuous insufferable lies? Lies of a tale where things work out just as you always wanted, just as you dreamed. But who does that actually happen to? People like Perfect Fliss no doubt, or anyone else whose hair doesn't frizz in the rain. It's like they've got some sort of alien control over their destiny and men are helpless under their glare.
Yet for the rest of us, the hoi polloi, why we must not be deterred from mingling with the bourgeoisie, even if that's with a heart and mind which remains brow beaten and anaesthetised. The plus point of such numbness being that even Liam is more tolerable now, for I'm not able to feel even the slightest bit of irritation towards him. It's like I have a permanent dead leg, but the sensation is smothering my entire body, and no amount of annoyance can help stimulate my limp limbs back to life.

But what did I expect to gain from attending such a dire social event, alone once more, except for a vat of manure to open upon my head, highlighting to everyone what a stinky rotten loner I have become?

Together I saw them, Natasha draped across Harry's knee, her arms hanging around his neck like a boa constrictor.
'Simone!' She was unnervingly happy to see me, 'I'm so pleased you came.' She followed me as I tried to escape to the drinks table, slinging her arm around my shoulder. 'It's going to be the best night. But poor Harry, he's still so sad about Mr Bryan. He just needs comforting.'

Later
I watched as Natasha writhed against him, stroking her now rotten nose, no longer fine, but grotesque like a cauliflower, against his. Her ice thin lips edged closer still, Harry's soft face about to be ruined forever by the muck now spread up on it.
'Get off him!' I slapped Natasha across the face and pulled her hair. 'I knew it. You've been desperate to do that for years. That's why you're always so mean to me, because I've always had what you wanted, and you couldn't stand that. Well I hope you're happy now. You can have him.'
For once Natasha was silent.
'Simone, wait!' Harry chased after me, 'I never meant to hurt you; it just all got too much, and you just didn't seem to get it about Mr Bryan.'
'Mr Bryan crap! You should go fuck yourself Harry, and take that slag with you; it's what she's always wanted. Like she gives two monkeys about Mr Bryan either, she just tells you whatever it is that you want to hear in the hope that you might smile at her or something. Can't you see that she's just a desperate whore?'

Later still
Clutching on to the buckles of each of my black patent platform shoes, I swung them back and forth in to the air. Oh how I long to throw them, high and far into the infinity, to rid myself of these wretched heels and all that they represent. For I shall walk bare foot from this point forth.

'Is that you Simone; are you okay?' A male voice startled me from my desolation, causing me to realise that I'm alone, in the middle of the night, and an unknown man is asking after me. An unknown man who somehow knows my name.

'You cut your hair.' Despite the darkness, I still recognised him.
'It looks better, right?
'I guess.'
'I've been trying to say hello to you for so long now. Why do you keep ignoring me?'
Because you keep turning up in these most unforeseen places, staring at me demonically, perhaps? But I didn't say that, I just shrugged, suggesting that the oddity of his behaviour was merely a perception on my part.
'Are you on your own?' I hesitated to tell him the truth, cautious that he might jump from the van, knife in hand, and carry out the murder he'd for so long being plotting. 'Do you need a lift home?'
'I guess.' I resolved that there is nothing which he could do to me that would hurt any more than the pain I already feel, plus five miles is a long way to walk without any shoes, and who knows how many other weirdo's are out there.
Perversely I had no intention of making any signals for rescue; instead I was content with focusing on the hypnotic line of his jaw, which, now that I had begun to study it, was strikingly angular, much more so than the softer lines of Harry and Liam's now juvenile faces.
Although he was clean shaven I could tell from the roughness of his skin that he needed to tend to his face regularly, and the removal of his beloved ponytail had stripped him of his creepy scent, leaving him with the appearance of an ordinary man.
'Would it be okay if you don't take me home straight away? I can't face it yet.'
'Great, but where do you want to go?'
'Anywhere,' I shrugged my shoulders.
Patrick was talking but I couldn't make out the words, for inside my ears an incessant dull noise held my attention. Shaking my head to break free from the blare, I again looked in to the vortex of his eyes, unable to deny it any longer; I found them highly erotic, there was something so knowing, tormenting about them.
No longer inclined to contemplation I leant in to him, pressing my lips on to his, pushing him back in to his seat. Pulling away he gave a flash of a smile, before I dove back in. This time he opened his mouth and gently pressed his tongue on to mine. I climbed on to his lap, spreading my legs over him. The roughness of his shaven face rubbed against me, contrasted with the softness of his lips which were expertly kissing my own. The way he used his tongue so well reflected his experienced years; this guy knew how to kiss! His hands ran up the inside of my skirt, eventually cupping my bottom. The moment was an illicit impulse, my months of denial now summer salting to freedom, and I wished it to continue like this forever.
'Do you want me to put a thing on?' Of course Patrick was not to be content with the dizzy heights of our heavy petting, and now plonked back upon the drivers seat, my eyes fixated on to his exposed foreskin, which sat so apparent like a wrinkled old stocking.
'Have you never seen a penis before?'
Unfortunately yes, and just like on that prior ill fated occasion, the passion experienced only minutes before again now swiftly dissipated.

What am I doing? How have I got here, with Weirdo Woodcutter, looking at his willy, and about to let him do who knows what to me with it. What is so wrong with me that I've already done it with a boy I barely know, and I'm about to make the same mistake again, and with Patrick too. And let's not forget that last time I engaged in altercation with a penis it was been a depressing affair, so why will it be any different this time?
'I'm really sorry, I can't.'
'What do you mean, can't?' Patrick's face told of disappointment and frustration.
'I'm sorry, I thought I could do this, but it turns out it's not me, it's not what I should be doing.'...

'Liam, is that you?' I recognised his brown suede loafers as I climbed out of Patrick's van. 'What are you doing here?'
'I wanted to make sure that you were okay, you seemed so upset, and why are you with him, has he done something to you?'
'No I'm fine; Patrick just gave me a lift home. How long have you been waiting?'
'Since you left the dance, pretty much. I got a taxi, but when I got here your mum told me that you weren't home yet, so I decided to wait.'
'I don't know what's wrong with me Liam.' I sat down on the kerbside.
'What do you mean?'
'I'm out of control; look at my hands, they won't stop shaking. I don't seem to know what I'm doing half of the time.'
For the first time Liam wasn't able to provide the rational explanation that my exaggerated nerves required. Doesn't he have a theory, a hypothesis to explain why boys and girls are so determined to hurt each other that they wind up sitting on the pavement in the middle of the night, without any shoes and a permanent tremble, and somehow looking up at the one person who annoyed them the most in the world, realising that even they can't help you, because even they don't annoy you anymore?
'Liam, please will you give me your hand,' I begged, 'please, I need your hand.' I reached upwards and wrapped both of my hands around the caring offering held out to me.
'Sit down please, I can't catch my breath. I need to hold on to your hand. I can't breathe.'
As he sat down nervously I clutched on to him, his hand so warm inside my own cold, shaking palms.
'I'm really sorry,' I dug my nails in to him.
'It's okay; just breathe slowly, in and out.' Through clenched teeth I did as instructed, sucking up the air slowly.