Customer Service:The Slow Downfall of Happiness [Chapter Thirteen]

Cut to me getting a text from Bella reading,
"When are we gonna hangout fool *pOw*" Clearly no use of punctuation and followed by the same "pig+cow=pOw" signature. To be honest, I didn't know how to feel now that the game had changed. I was used to not being able to obtain Bella, I knew my boundaries. I knew that I was just that funny guy she worked with, who wasn't funny all the time, but could write like the devil himself.
It made me happy that my biggest joy [the art of writing] was Bella's only hobby [reading], so we fit together like causality, cause and affect. I wrote, and enjoyed writing, and she read and enjoyed every word. Her reasons why never being fully expressed [but then again, she never fully expressed any sort of reason for anything, she was a thickheaded bitch, and I was absolutely in love with her] by more than,
"I like to read about other people's problems, and your stories are..."
"Fucked up?" I ended her sentence.
"Pretty much." She'd say before changing the subject to some superficial topic I had no real attachment to. The tension began rise and fall, like the tides. Some days we'd get along famously, others...I could tell she'd probably stab me if she had a sharp object. Penetrate my flesh, watching my cowardly eyes roll into the back of my head, as my mind turns the whole event into something worse than it really is. She'd probably watch as the blood would climb through my open wound, and seep down my cheeks.
Or maybe not, maybe she was just on her rag and acting like a cunt for no reason.
I never did get reasons from her. Except the first couple of days after her breakup. This was when she finally admitted to having a crush on me [actually she didn't, I just presented a theory as to why she asked me to kill this project, the one you're reading right now. The theory being that my skill in writing made her develop a school girl crush on me, similar to how extremely attractive girls think douche bags like Shia LeBeouf or Jack Black or "my husband". She only responded with a "Pretty much." The answer not appeasing my troubled mind, in fact achieving an adverse affect; I was now more skeptical than ever.
I once had a girl use me as a scape goat, as a way to free herself from a horrible nightmare of a relationship, only to fly away like a bird that has no fucking idea where it is. Yeah, I had been there before and got the feeling this was the same thing.
As flattering as it is to think that the girl you've got a crush the size of Tokyo's electric bill actually might have a fragment of those feeling repressed somewhere deep inside of her, one doesn't take it at skin level.
All I wanted was a one on one, face to face talk about it. My audience was declined. Too much can be misunderstood via text massage, and some one's physical reactions to things can tell a completely different story than what their voice is saying. So with the only other two forms of conversation out the window, the only option left seemed none other than, The Talk.
Not the talk your parents give you about sex, or drugs, or god, or anything else parents are afraid to tell their kids. I mean just a respectful conversation about the present events, that way no loose ends or misunderstandings would be present from then on.
I attempted a dozen times at work to engage it, but every time she'd refuse. Or begin followed quickly by one of us being paged to do some less-than-important assignment for a coworker.
Then I invited her to Carrios' going away party that Saturday, I told her we could go in the morning, before work. I told her I could pick her up and take her to work. That way we could hangout like she asked, we could talk, and we could party. But predictable Bella invented some lame excuse as to why she couldn't make it, often did she interject how it made her feel uncomfortable hanging out with my friends. I had heard all that before, from others as well.
Why put up with it then?
To be honest, I don't know why. It might have been easier to flip her the bird, so to speak, and go back to being the reclusive writer, which I had no problem with, but it was the curiosity that drove me insane. I just wanted a Q&A.
Question: Are you now single?
Answer: [Blank]
Question: You having feelings towards me, true or false?
Answer: [Blank]
Question: If anything should happen between us, would that affect our friendship? And if so, would that affect your decision toward us possibly dating?
Answer: [Blank]
Question: Is all this some kind of sick joke?
Answer: You get the fucking point.

"Fuck it." I thought, and then I watched Terminator Salvation and I reaffirmed my bittersweet love hate relationship with human beings.
I am.
I am human.
I am confused.
Its the heart that separates us from the machines, was pretty much the moral of that story, which I partly agree with. But I believe it really becomes defined by our individuality; that thing about us that we can't change, no matter what.
My larger than life personality is my greatest gift, and biggest obstacle. As much as girls live confident guys, they still feel uncomfortable being around someone with a Technicolor personality in a grey scale world. That's what Bella was the perfect match, I had found someone that could match my personality with their own. The few people who could filter my personality to work for her, if she had the patience.
It was also her smile, that kept me around. Even on the worst days, that smile could bring me some joy. Now, when I say smile, I don't mean just her mouth. When Bella would smile, really smile...you could see it in her eyes. Her beautiful big brown eyes, so strong and powerful. When those eyes smiled at you, you were ready for anything. A smile from those eyes was enough to make me shut up and listen to her, like a house broken puppy, wagging my tail waiting on her every beck and call.
It might have also been the talks, the real ones. Not the ones you start to pass the time during a car ride, to avoid any uncomfortable silences. Even with the music up loud, you can feel each other thinking, and it drives you mad that you can't hear them, so you break [turning down the music] and ask something trivial and stupid. The real talks, about our similar pasts. The stories we'd tell [It was mostly myself at first, on account of...Bella can't tell an entertaining story to save her life] the other about why we ended up the way we did. Me telling her I'm convinced I'll never reach age thirty.
"Do you know what its like to be that guy?" I would ask.
"What guy?" She'd probably say.
"The one that can do anything perfectly."
"What do you mean?"
"The one who can write a the best story you've ever read and make it look like it was nothing. The guy that can make a song in five minutes that's better than a song that would take you five years to make. the guy with the Midas touch." I'd probably say if she didn't interrupt me all the time.
"What's it like?" She might say.
"It fucking sucks..." I'd finally admit after years of wanting to say it. "...the constant pressure of having to out-do yourself. To keep producing something better and better."
"You should just make what you want." Her insightful mind might have her marshmallow lips ask.
"Bella," I'd glance over to her. "I feel like I have to keep writing to keep you."
"Keep me? I don't belong to you." This feels like the end now, unless you can come up with the right thing to say.
"No, you don't. You're here by choice, but I'm convinced its because of my writings, of my constant gratification of you. Me, chapter by chapter, turning you more and more into an icon. Turning you into the perfect girl." This would probably shut her up for a while, and her reaction would make the whole scene tense.
"Why do you think that?" Let's just say she'd really like to get to the bottom of this.
"Because we never talked as much as we do now. I think its because of you reading my work." I'd say.
"If it bothers you, I'll stop." I know for a fact she'd say.
"Why would I want to stop, you're the reason I write as much as I do. I told you, I feel like I'd lose our friendship if I didn't write."
"Why do you think that?"
"Its always an easy way to start a conversation, "New chapter of some fuckin' story is up." Don't you think?" I'd ask.
"Yeah, I guess. I don't know." I know she'd be texting during this. "But that's not the only reason why we talk. And don't be such a drama queen, we'd still be friends if you stopped writing, you'd just be lame."
"I'm exaggerating, of course!" I'd say. "I'd have to exaggerate to show you my point: How if you could meet me a at a little bit more halfway, our friendship wouldn't feel so one-sided." Then I know there'd be silence.
"So that's why you think you're gonna die before thirty?"
"No, bitch. Its because of the stress of having to out-do myself. Duh, Bella, duh!"

Was it some sick game? Just some way of testing what I'd do if she were single? I didn't know, and I was confident she'd never tell me. So I just waited a while, for her to show me how much our friendship meant to her.
I waited.
I waited for the texts.
I waited for the texts with the answers.
And after that, I waited for the talks.

-Sir Jestro