I’d like to know where she’s been, this little daisy that stands on the opposite side of the room. She stands like me, arms crossed with a red solo cup dangling between dainty fingers. Maybe mine aren’t dainty, but the cup dangles either way. It’s clear as day, this isn’t where she wants to be. I certainly can’t blame her. I’d imagine she was forced here, convinced by a friend, a sister, a roommate. This isn’t her scene, nor is it mine. Why else would we stand in our respective corners, eyeing the drunken fiends in the room with nothing but pure disgust?
We are the same, she and I. I wonder if she sees me, too.
I can’t take my eyes off of her, the beautiful girl who stands on the opposite side of the room. She takes small sips from her red cup - bourbon, I’d like to think - and maintains her previous stance. How badly I wish to drag my tattered shoes across the creaky hardwood floor that we both stand on, extend my hand to her and invite her into conversation. She’ll smile a close-lipped smile, nodding as she places her small hand in mine.
“Needy,” she’ll say, and her emerald green eyes will glow something radiant. “My name’s Needy.”
And I’ll do my best to muster the courage it takes to mutter my own name, a growl of Brett. I’ll manage a smile, manage to suppress the urge to stop her right then and there and run my fingers through her golden hair. But I’ll humor her instead and make her smile. I’ll joke and complain about how drab it is to be here, this New Year’s Eve party we were both brought to against our own will. She’ll agree, telling me of her original plans to lounge on her couch with a bottle of Merlot, eyes glued to **** Clark’s countdown and drooling over some Seacrest character. How I’d love to be in her presence for such an event, to rub her shoulders while her excitement for whatever celebrity guest came on next rose. I’d tell her my original plans, taking a seat in front of my prized Royal typewriter with a bottle of Tennessee Honey. She’d ask me what I would write and I’d give her a crooked smile just before quoting a legend.
“Nothing really. I’d just sit and bleed.”
And she’d flash her pearly whites with a knowing grin, one that I would return out of sheer satisfaction in knowing that she knew what I was talking about. That’s how it would start, the beginning of our little storm. She’d give me no warnings, my sweet little Needy, not telling of the little grenade that she really was.
I’d accept it, accept her, and love her, forever, my little time bomb.
It’d start out fine, just as any great romance would; I’d be tender, romance her and charm her to my wits end. She’d appreciate me and show me her affection in any way she could; little notes tacked up in random places, a simple “morning,” “night,” text. She’d trace shapes along my chest, and bury her face deep in the crook of my neck. She’d mumble, “I love you,” in her sleep, and I’d kiss her softly on the cheek. Call me possessive, call her weak; she’s my little daisy, and mine only to keep.
We’d be the kids that are seen only in the movies, troubled and disturbed by one another but with no desire to detach. She’d **** me and I’d **** her, each with words so hauntingly true; I hate you, I love you, I don’t want you near. You’re awful, you’re difficult, you’re so stuck in the dark. I hate you, I love you, I can’t stop thinking of you, and we’d still kiss each other goodnight and endure another day. We’d be destructive, she and I.
And I’d be crazy, driven mad by her, for her, forever, my needy little Needy.
I’d imagine she would hate me after quite some time, so much that her hate would battle her love and she’d lose either way. And I’d remember that night we first met, the night that I stole her light in that little white dress. It’ll hit me then, as I cradle her in my arms, wiping her tears, stroking her hair. I’ll realize then what I did and curse myself for my crime.
“You used to love **** Clark and that Seacrest fellow,” I’d mumble as we lay by a fire.
“And you used to love me.” she’d say, almost a whisper, and my heart would tear in two right there, burning with the flames that danced before my eyes.
And it’s awful, knowing that I took this girl, so bright and lively, and dimmed her light to the point that she didn’t exist, not without me. My little Needy, always telling me she’d need me. Such a fitting name for my beautiful girl.
Maybe then I’d realize my mistake. I’d hold her and apologize profusely. I’d press her into me with the hopes that she’d become one with me, understand me, hear my thoughts as loudly as I heard them in my mind. Would she accept me, too? Or would she throw me aside like the piece of trash that I am? I wouldn’t blame her, no. But my Needy, my needy little thing; she’d cling to me and I’d cling to her. I’d be a mess without her and I’m already one with her, here, forever.
I’d like to think I was right about her, the girl I see twirling the tip of her finger in her red solo cup. I’d like to think my own private fantasy was filled with accuracy, the story of us that is yet to be written, if it’s ever written at all. I’ll never muster the courage to know her name, nor will she know mine. Instead, I’ll continue to watch her from my side of the room, protecting her from a distance should any harm come her way at this god awful party.
And finally, after what feels like forever, her emerald green eyes meet mine across the way. She smiles a small closed-lip smile and raises her dainty little fingers to give me a small wave. I lift my red solo cup to my lips, tipping back the warm ***, savoring the burn down my throat before I give her the same crooked smile I imagined myself giving her. I won’t talk to her, I won’t make that treacherous walk towards her. I won’t tell her my name and she won’t tell me hers. I’ll keep what I know about my little daisy in my head. I’d doubt if she’s anything like I imagined, standing there in that snow white dress. I’d like to keep this image in my head, the one I have of a sweet little thing, needy and clinging to me and only me.
My fate is sealed as I watch a burly fellow approach her, and those pearly whites flash at the sight of him, and her heels lift from the hardwood floor that we stand on together as her arms wrap around his neck.
My little Needy, how wrong could I be? She doesn’t need me.
I feel like this is more prose than anything, but I did make it a point to have some sort of off-beat rhyming riddled throughout. I drew a lot of inspiration from Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body, which I found to be incredibly poetic for a novel. I don't often write in the male point of view, but this was one of my first attempts. First draft was written on February 9, 2013 and I continued to revise until May 7.
