dinner

Melody watched from her spot at the table as Ace climbed up on the stool to see what options the cupboard held for their dinner. From what she could see, the only food to speak of was canned: applesauce, a row of Progresso soups, tuna and the likes. He reached toward the back and pulled out a bag.

"Pasta," he said as he leaped from his perch.

She watched as he filled a sorely dented pot with water from the sink, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a crusty jar of tomato sauce, and as he sliced tomatoes - in his hand - to add to an odd mixture of sour cream, pineapple and cottage cheese.

He chose to steep grainy Lipton tea over their usual, smooth Taj Mahal because he claimed to have forgotten what it tasted like and wondered if it was as bad as they both remembered. It was.

He placed the cooked spaghetti on a glass plate, meticulously layered deli-style slices of chedder cheese on top and poured the cold tomato sauce over the whole thing. He put the dish in the microwave and pulled it out two minutes later. Mel couldn't help but giggle when, with an impish smile, he said, "I found a napkin." It was next to his shoe. On the floor.

He offered her a bite from his plate. She accepted. Warily.
She lied to him and said it was good and scrunched her nose when her stomach churned a moment later.

"Battery's almost dead," Ace announced a little later, while they were watching foreign cartoons on his computer. He shrugged and continued, "I guess it's time to take you home."

She knew when he picked her up earlier that the night probably wouldn't go well, but her heart still fell hearing the words. She had secretly hoped - especially after they both established the fact that neither of them had plans for the following day - that she would spend the night as usual.

It had been weeks since the last time she was there, though, and the terms on which that particular R-rated rendezvous ended were far from agreeable. Mel vividly recalled her oafish movements, and transparent embarrassment and obvious discomfort at the uncommonly frequent missteps. At one point she had even tripped on one of the stray articles layered on Ace's bedroom floor and rammed her knee into the support of his queen-sized bed. Mel remembered the way his voice dripped with impatience and frustration later that evening, and despite his many soft apologies, she knew he doubted the nature of their relationship.

Mel hadn't heard from him for weeks following that unfortunate tryst, but as Murphey would have it, as soon as she considered herself "so over it," he made contact.

She vowed this time would be different. She planned to make him work for her attention, but his charm broke through the feeble, guard at her heart, and she let him in again.

She tried to forget about him later, but every day brought new reminders. Just when she thought she could keep him from her mind forever, he showed up for lunch with mutual friends, ran into her by chance, even called just to chat.

Still, she forgot many things about their relationship. At the time, she tried to memorize everything but in time many of the smells, feels, conversations, even sounds she once associated with him were forgotten. There were certain things she would always remember, though: the salty softness of his earlobes; the surprisingly soft texture of his unshaven jaw; his unbearably attractive, slightly sweaty smell; the feel of his barrel chest against pressed against her small body.

She was going to have to find a way to cope.

Buck: journal

Dear Ernest,

Fuck the stupid accent.

You think I'll be able to keep that up for long? Doubtful. But that definitely called for some dramatics. We'll keep your name though.

Ernest.

I think it suits you.

Anyway, here's the thing, Ernest:

Buck's a jerk. A real conniving charmer who doesn't even try and still gets what he wants, and I know that now. I didn't before - or I did and just ignored it - but I gave it time and now I get it.

He tells me, Oh Mel, no one's ever cared about me the way you care about me ever before. You are the best friend I've ever had and if I could I'd be with you in a minute [paraphrased]. Then [direct quote now; who could ever forget something as priceless as this?] Just know that I am yours in heart and mind even though custom does not allow. You are great.

Then silence on both ends for weeks.

This followed sadly by intermittent, depressed and desperate pleas for attention [from me, not him]. Cut to [...sometime later]: I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't been avoiding you at all. Yadda yadda. I'm sorry, I'm just a little thick at times. It's in my nature...

Did I forget to mention the I love you's? They were there too.

All of this followed by [again sometime later]: Gosh I haven't seen you in ages... why are you so busy all the time... you really don't have time between now and then to hang out at all? I could really use the support of my best friend right now...

Cut to: scenes that I won't describe for fear of my mother finding you, Ernest, and subsequently killing me.

Thinking back on this, I feel awkward and foolish. To think I bought all that tripe. If I knew then what I know now, you would probably be non-existent. I mean, in the end, this is what it comes down to: I'm a little messed up right now and need to figure out how to fix it. I decided in order to do that I would to document - to the best of my memory - everything that brought me to this state.

Anyway, that first entry wasn't even about Buck.
It was about Ace.

Even so, I need to go back to the beginning, and Buck was definitely the beginning.

I'll elaborate later... Reed's calling.
For the record though, I still think this should be read with a British accent.

-Mel

I

Dearest Ernest,

Yes, today you are Ernest because today that is who I need you to be. Serious, dedicated to my every word, and sensitive to my mood.

My heart has been squished, dearest. Most dreadfully squished.
Yes, yes, I hear you. Broken is the proper term, you say, but broken is not at all what I mean.

I don't mean the irreparable squished of roadkill. I mean damage to the nerves. The kind that's not enough to completely sever them or interrupt their natural transformation of the senses to the brain the way breakage might. I mean the ever-present, dull throbbing pain that sharpens when you lean a certain way, that keeps from inhibiting la vie quotidienne, yet serves as a constant reminder a half brained blunder.

Sudden, nay, even expected death of a loved one may break a heart.
The inclination of a significant other for philandering, for preferring your sister or best friend, for choosing to spend a romantic night with a video game console - when the offense is repeated - may break a heart.

My heart is not broken, treasured Ernest. My heart is merely squished.
You see, darling, the entities that break a heart come from without a person's body. He or she has no ability to prevent the clandestine shattering while I, on the other hand, have had ample opportunity to curb this unnecessary hurt.

Don't you see, darling. I've brought this upon myself. I said before, Miss Melody, you'll be sorry if you involve yourself with the likes of him.
Tall, handsome, smart, charming.
He'll win his way into your heart if you're not careful, and it won't mean a thing to him.
That's what I said, and I let it happen anyway. I let that tiny shred of hope glimmer through the cast-iron gates of my heart, and he did just what I expected. Serves me right.

So you see Ernest, my heart's not broken. Merely squished.

If you might perchance attain some sense, Ernest, I would be delighted if you would read these words aloud with a British accent.

Yours,

Mel

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

It's as good a way as any to begin a journal I suppose.
... not a very comforting, though.
No. I take it back now.

It's bland salutation really. Rather impersonal. Definitely cliche.

I need a confident so here I am, personally casting one, and how do I begin? Why no other way then the time old, stuffy, used-up "Dear Diary."

It will do for now, I suppose. Until divine inspiration strikes and I think of something a little more personal.

Either way, this entry serves as fair warning. You and I, thus far nameless annal, are going to be close. You'd probably get sick of me were it not for your inorganic nature.

In advance: Thank you.

-Mel