The Challenge: A short story about the main character falling in love with the reader. Last line: Please don’t close the book. I don’t want to die.

Claire

Written by Rj Waltz

I woke up again in that dusty old bedroom reeking of stale pop tarts and vodka. Soft scratching of finger nails against flabby, hair-covered unmentionables signaled that my late night tryst didn’t leave as quickly afterwards as I preferred.

“Claire?” he yelled his high pitched screech from the other side. “You got any sourdough?”

“No!” I yelled back, snuggling harder into the stinky comforter, “Go away, Scott.” I didn’t need eyes to see him wandering around my place in his disgusting yellowed underwear, beer in hand, scratching his hairy abdomen. Just the thought of it sent shivers up and down my spine. I mean, for Christ’s sake, I had just cleaned the floor the night before. Look, I’ll be honest. I had been set up on a blind date with this big rich successful doctor the night before. We were going to have it all; the big fancy candle-lit dinner, the flirting banter, the little-too-much wine and… Yeah. I was totally ready to give him all one-hundred and thirty pounds of this hot piece. Okay, okay. More like one fifty. I can’t help myself around the baking aisle sometimes. It’s basically my kryptonite.

“How old is this milk?” Scott interrupted me. As usual.

I screamed into my pillow, “Take the fucking milk and get outta here, Scott!”

“Yo, whatever, bitch.” Luckily for that piece of human garbage, the sounds of dressing and under-his-breath complaining followed that little remark. Once the door slammed behind him, I finally threw the blankets off of myself. The trusty air freshener I keep in my closet took away the stench of the night before. Thank merciful heavens. Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t be wasting my good fertile years with that walking windbag of failure. Look, I’ll be honest here. I’m not exactly a prize-winner in the looks department. I’ve got some seriously jacked up crooked teeth. My tits are lop-sized. I’m pretty sure my nips are two different colors. I have bad posture. My job is awful. Every month I get to deal with a vice-grip clamping my uterus while being forced to be nice to entitled white people sipping lattes and whimpering about their Mexican gardeners. It takes all my willpower not to reach across the counter and snap their wispy little necks. The biggest thing that I tell myself; it’ll all get better.

“It is so not going to get better,” Mary, my best friend, echoed my disappointment, “Please, please please tell me that you didn’t go home with that miserable trash can of a man last night.” I shouldered my phone in order to allow my free hands to shoehorn myself into the leggings I absolutely had to have last Christmas.

“Look, dude, you don’t get it. You get to have mind-blowing sex any time you want because you weren’t cursed with an idiotic brain that likes the dumbest gender in the universe.”

“I still maintain that all women are a little bit gay,” Mary pointed out, “All you need to do is give it a try. I think you’ll like it more than you think. Besides, even the worst looking woman would be better than Scott.” Not that I could argue with Mary. Truth is, I have thought about it. Everyone gets braver than they have any mind to during a cocktail mixer in college. But getting turned down or laughed at by some chick isn’t really what stopped me. It’s all about the yes. If the woman says yes, then I have to sleep with her. Hell, I have a hard time getting myself off when there’s no one else in the room. Much less some hot twenty-two year old blonde bimbo who’s probably had sex with a million people. That, my friend, is how you end up chained to a sawhorse with your kidneys in a cooler.

“Gay pseudo-science aside,” I pressed on, “It’s not like I called Scott here on purpose. Doctor Wow stood me up, and I needed a dick. Even a pop-tart scented one.”

“There is such a thing as oversharing, Claire,” Mary responded, disgusted. “Look, I love you like a brother, kiddo, but you need a hobby that isn’t slapping uglies with turd sandwiches.” Yeah, right. Hobbies are for people who want to go places. Be things. My lot in life is a department store clerk. It’s the only thing I’ve done that has actually given me the money for this dump. Besides, I’m usually so exhausted from work that I end up in a depths of sleep for an extra two hours afterwards. Maybe I’m just stressed.

“Is napping a hobby?”

“Be serious,” Mary said, “Listen, I want to meet up later. We can talk about all of this stuff over coffee.”

“Or beer?”

“Wine’s the best I’m gonna give you,” she laughed, “Seriously, though. Take care of your damn self. Bye.”

“Bye bye.” Click. The silence filled the apartment. Hmm. Never really been all that good with silence. Maybe that’s part of my problem. When I was a kid, I was always talking. I talked about my favorite dinosaurs, colors, shapes, anything that came to my tiny, bored mind. Hard to imagine that I didn’t make too many friends. I actually met Mary by incessantly asking her about her favorite color. It’s pink, by the way. Obviously. Seriously, I don’t think she could be more of a cliche if she tried. My annoying phone’s alarm shrieked, signalling my time as anything but a moving cog in a consumerist machine at an end.

One hasty shower and a quick speeding car ride later, I arrived at the entrance of the big conglomerate that took a tiny piece of my soul one paycheck at a time. Glamorous, right? Yeah, nobody really thinks that unsarcastically. Okay, I’ll admit… I’m not thrilled to work here because of the actual work. It’s my coworkers that keep me coming back day after day.The half-dented door bell taped to the top of the swinging glass door chimed, announcing my royal presence to the entire store. Ruth waved at me, their painted glitter nails chipped at the base. I grumbled inaudibly in response as I nudged past the customers gathered around the entrance. My lack of enthusiasm mirrored Ruth’s own face of sheer and utter boredom. They’re a real pill after lunch break. Honest.

“You’re late,” the manager chirped, almost taking pleasure in my misery. My skull nearly cracked from me suppressing the biggest and most violent eye-roll of my life.

“I wouldn’t be if you’d move,” I motioned towards the wall-mounted keypad behind him. He awkwardly waddled out of my way, breathing much too heavily in my personal space. It made my skin crawl. I knew deep down that he was sniffing me. Measuring me for a skin-suit, no doubt. I swallowed the urge to vomit as I stepped out onto the floor.Honestly, I’m not entirely sure why I’m talking about the store. It paid the rent and I got to hang out with some of my work friends. Ruth, as previously mentioned, Mary came in to harass me as often as she could, Parker liked taking cheap shots at me sometimes, and the unofficial leader of our merry little band.

“Shape up, dingbat,” Shania saluted me as I took my place in the foxhole of the register that the manager assigned me for the day. Oh, Shania was the biggest enigma of us all. If someone found a picture of the rest of us all smushed together, no doubt a group-styled mug shot to save police time and resources, it would make perfect sense by our appearance why we all worked out of a two-bit dollar store. Not Shania. She radiated the essence of a goddess with her perfectly managed hair. Not a strand out of place. Usually she wore the cutest hoop earrings, but today she had on a smaller set of pink ones. Probably a gift from someone? I’m not exactly in with her personal life, to be honest. Her smile could land airplanes with its brilliance. Honestly, I would kill Scott with my bare hands if I could look a tenth as good as Shania does when she’s hungover.

I saluted her back, “Claire reporting for duty.” She winked at me in response.”You seem different,” Ruth said dryly as they rang up the rows of party balloons for some red-faced soccer mom.

“It’s nothing,” I struggled to hide my face. Not that they bought it. Even Shania leveled her gaze at me. “Okay, fine. It’s not fair. You guys are such better liars than me.”

“If you met someone, you have to tell us,” Shania teased in a singsong voice. Damn goddess, I swear. “Those are the rules.”

“It’s probably nothing,” I stammered. Ruth crossed their arms in response. “It’s not Scott!” I added hotly.

“Good,” Shania smiled, “You’re too good for that low hanging fruit. I’ve said that for years.” I’ve only know her about six months.

“Tell us about this mystery person,” Ruth requested, deadpan.

“Well,” I waved a customer into my queue, “They’re a good listener. I feel comfortable telling them all sorts of things.”

“Sounds boring,” Shania remarked, “You tap that yet, or what?”

I felt the prickling sensation of embarrassment dusting my cheeks. “No, not yet. We’ve only just met.”

“Right,” she said, “I forget. You have a terrible time closing the deal. Give me their number and maybe I can talk you up.”

“What are you planning on saying, exactly?” I inquired, suspicious.

Shania held up her hands defensively, “Relax! It’s nothing you have to worry about. I’d say, ‘Claire is a cute, petite girl who is a wild hellcat in the sack that will blow your god damn mind apart. In fact, I bet that you’d even be able to handle her. Stand back, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“You’re the worst,” I groaned, hiding my red face. The customer I had been scanning items for the whole conversation struggled to hide his eavesdropping. He swiped his card and hurried on, bags under his arms.

Ruth said, “You know, I’d bet that this person would love to take you up on that offer. Claire’s usually into dudes who like to watch.”

“This is different,” I protested, “Well, okay, maybe not that different, now that I think about it. Tell you what, I’ll give you a call after I talk to them about it and we’ll see.”

“Well, I’ll be damned, Claire. I never in a million years thought you’d actually take me up on that,” Shania laughed, impressed. I couldn’t imagine any reason not to at least entertain that option. Her silky smooth skin pressed against mine. My hands entangled, trapped, in her perfectly placed curly hair as she slammed me down on the bed. Eager, hungry eyes watching me from the closet, enveloping me in the exact moment of climax… Ugh. Ruth was right, I really do have a type.

Let’s skip ahead. My job isn’t exactly fulfilling, glamorous, or fun to watch. I spend roughly eight hours a day pretending not to be bored out of my skull there as it is. If I can spare others from suffering the same fate. I know I mentioned that one guy, Parker, but don’t worry about him. Sure, we hooked up once. Alcohol got involved, as it often did when I made bad decisions like, well, Parker. Parker and Scott were definitely cut from the same cloth. Nobody should meet the same guy twice, after all.

“Hey, airhead!” Mary’s chirping shook me out of my reverie. End of the shift. Time to try and live a fraction of my life before I ended up going to bed to start the day all over again. Hopefully, tomorrow had less Scott in it that this one did.

“Ready to go?” I asked her jokingly, “I’ve been standing here all day with you staring off into space.”

Mary stuck out her tongue, “I hope you’re ready to go out tonight. I have a big long list of clubs to hit today.”

“Er… I think I’m going to stay in, tonight. Raincheck?”

“You’re never going to find a boyfriend that way,” she lectured me. Should I tell her? I’d rather not put a label on it.

I shook my head, “I… Kind of met someone.”

“Scott?”

“No,” I clarified, “I met them this morning. Chance encounter.”

“Them?” she arched an eyebrow, “Are you feeling okay? I thought you weren’t into your coworkers.”

“Oh, it’s not Ruth either,” I told her. My lips pursed in excitement. I can’t help it. “It’s a little early, and I don’t want to jinx it, okay? I’ll give you more details tomorrow. They’re coming over to my place tonight. A little wine, a candlelit dinner, and who knows where the night will take us.”

Mary stomped her feet in excitement, “Okay, you know that you’ll have to tell me everything, and I mean everything, tomorrow. Good luck!” She hurried off.

I grabbed my things and clocked out. My heart raced in my chest. To be frank, I don’t know what I was worried about. I made the same meal for most of my dates, a detail I felt that I shouldn’t be confessing so easily if I wasn’t so confident in its execution. Chicken Bacon Alfredo. Trust me, it worked like a charm. First, I diced up the chicken and fried it with butter. Nice, golden brown on the outside gave it a slight but lovely crunch. The bacon I cooked until crispy in a separate pan. I know, I know. You’re supposed to cook bacon on a cookie sheet in the oven, but I don’t have time for all of that. Besides, I live in mortal fear of grabbing that grease-filled sheet and tipping it all over the inside of my oven. That would no doubt burn my dingy apartment to ash in seconds. Anyway, I chop up that crispy bacon into bits and add it to the chicken. No grease, no water. Only chicken, bacon, and some butter. I slip in some spinach for a little something extra, and to keep my mom happy, and mix in the Alfredo sauce. Trust me, you won’t regret eating that with a glass of red wine. I’m not big on making the first move, especially on a full stomach. The wine hit me a little harder than I thought it would.

“I’m sure you know exactly what to do, but, and I’ll be honest here. I’m worried about the candles. Almost as worried as I am about what you and I are actually doing here. What is this? Am I crazy, or is there something here?” I fell silent. My mouth needed something to do, so I drank the rest of my glass of wine.

“You’re so cool and collected. This doesn’t freak you out at all? I’m not one to fall so fast, to be honest. I barely know you, and you know a whole bunch about me. Yet, here you are. Somehow.” It made me feel uneasy. Almost surreal. There wasn’t going to be a tomorrow. Mary would miss out on what happened tonight. It was all we had together.

“Look, this is completely insane, but I have a theory,” I said, inching across the couch. “This is going to sound completely crazy, but just go with it, alright? I want to spend as long as I can in this moment. Don’t take me too seriously, but here goes.” I am a total nutcase. Why are you even with me? What I wouldn’t give to hear you echo the same feelings. Well, until I can…

“Until you can tell me how you feel about me, I have one request. Close your eyes. Please, don’t close the book. I don’t want to die.”