A rumor found its way to me, that my neighbor is using the house this weekend for a party. Now of course I’m interested in coming. Who wouldn’t mind, when your neighbor is a blond in the earlier years of her life, and a couple of centimeters shorter than you.
In the past I was pretty mean to my neighbors. I had mentioned earlier that I do not regret it, and yet, now I feel as if I might be regretting doing so, and yet, I still don’t regret it.
Why? Well, at the time, it was a perfectly valid judgement. My logic had no apparent, perceivable flaws, no apparent design faults. It was a smooth elegant plan, justified for its purpose and cause. True. It might have been somewhat stirring, and possibly immoral, but it worked. It worked and fulfilled its purpose down to the last goal. It was, in the scope of the problem in itself, reasonable.
Why might I be regretting it? Possibly due to, first of all, ruining the fun. She probably had a good talk with her mother, evidently – no parties in months. Every now and then, some friends might come over, but there was no more smoking in the hallway, no more yelling and no more doors opening and closing for every group of four noisy teens wanting to get a few puffs of their cigarettes. But then again, she was now being restricted. Who am I to tell her what to do, that’s one thing, but I don’t want to chop her wings off.
I was informed at around 6:00 PM that day, the party had started about three hours afterwards. During those three hours, I went around the house in a daze considering whether I should go or not.
She sure didn’t like me, I thought. After what I’ve done to her, putting the gag on her parties. Trying would be superfluous, unneeded, and unwelcome
My social transformation. I can’t stop it, just yet. I’m filling out the percentages slowly, but with great certainty, and might just reach the (mostly undefinable) goal of gaining a “place within the social structure.” Stopping now would be pointless. It was just the beginning. It’s like a pet. Even if you do feel like killing it, you’re not going to be able to get yourself to, instead, you’ll just wait for it to die on its own, so you don’t have to feel guilty for terminating the poor creature. Not making an attempt was in fact, not an option.
Just to be sure, I put about eight Bacardi Breezer, my favorite “alcohol soft-drink” (I guess you could put it that way) as of today, inside a supermarket bag. It would be harder to refuse when you’re brining something over.
I put on my newly baught cologne which I’d realized after a while that I simply put too much of, since my eyes began to sore slightly, but I sure did smell good. I got out o the house, and went towards the next door.
For a minute, I was just standing in front of the door, considering, until I heard, all of a sudden, the bell ringing.
Similarly to apartment where I live, you can’t tell the front door from the apartment’s door. It’s the same ring. Same sound. No difference.
She heard the doorbell. So did I, which meant that I could do one of two things, either I’ll just get a sudden burst of sheepishness and run away, or, just use it as a sort of a way to combat that problem – a catalyst analogous to someone putting a hand on your shoulder when you’re about to do something stupid enough to get you in prison. I chose the latter.
She ran to the door in heavy steps in those loud shoes that she wore, and opened the door. I didn’t recognize her, mostly because I never had a good look at her face.. There I was, standing in front of her.
“Hi. Would it be alright if I joined, I’m your next door neighbor,” I started, “I brought some drinks too, and got some more at home, I mean..”
She wore a black dress of some interesting semi-formal design, of some material resambling velvet, and at the same time simple cotton. Smooth hair, unnatural blond as far as I could tell, perfectly combed with a little white line, revealing her scalp, on the left side of her head. Interestingly revealing the dress was, and more interesting was why she wore it, but it sure wasn’t because her breast was exceptionally interesting – below average, nothing interesting enough to show in a display case. Not a work of art, but she just had it. Imperfect in a good old human way.
“Well, you see. It’s only for close friends.” Her accent was unmistakably foreign, but she was exceptionally good for a second language. It was that common universal American-like accent.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s just for my close friends…”
She knew how to come up with excuses on the fly. But she was good at it, good enough to make me understand that she just won’t let me join, and pressure won’t help. The least I could do, was be nice to her. “By the way, happy birthday. October 23rd, right?”
“Right. You too,” she smiled, “I heard you had yours not so long ago too.” And indeed, my birthday was two weeks ago, four days before hers. She didn’t hate me.
“The next time you’re having a party or something don’t hesitate to invite me over, I’m really bored out of my mind on weekends, usually, and I’d be happy if you had invited me to one of your parties, you know.” Squeezing the last couple of drops before you throw something in the bin is always a good idea.
She gave me a general interjection, as if to agree, substituting a nod.
“Goodbye, then.” I said and started going towards my door, keys in one hand, supermarket bag in the other.
“Bye.” She said and slammed the door, exactly the way I was used to hear in my bedroom.
Rejection.
I believed her, and at the same time didn’t want to believe her. I’d much rather to think of her as a bitch than to think of myself as a loser.
Even if she did do it on purpose, I can’t blame her, you know what.
The only question is what excuse to use next.