Tired of Losing

She said, "I don't tolerate mind games."

And her words still skittered across his mind like little black bugs as he walked quickly up the crooked boulevard, past old brick buildings, past cracked windows and empty doorways.

"Well," said he, to the reckless wind in his face, "what might be a mind game to you could be a natural reaction on my part to one of your many, many idiosyncracies. Ever think of that?"

Yeah. That's what he should have said to her. But did he? No.

"Just because you don't tolerate mind games, well, that sure as hell doesn't mean you don't play them, now does it?"

Another good one. Would have knocked her back big time. But did he say it? No.

The wind howled down on him, a chilly embrace. He turned up his collar and thrust his hands into the pockets of his long jacket as the gust tore at his dirty hair.

She sure did smell good. Just before the fight started over ... over whatever. She'd sprayed on some kind of perfume and he'd been hanging around the bathroom door, listening to the buzz of her hair dryer, anticipating the great sex they likely would have been having, oh, right about now. If only she hadn't ……

"i don't tolerate mind games . . ." he whined to himself, mimicking her stupid righteousness. “if you're gonna pick at me all night with your mind games, then forget it. just leave."

Man that he is, he strode straight for the door, opened it, waited a beat for her to reconsider her rash ultimatum, and calmly walked out.

The slamming of the door had really been for the overall effect, masculine punctuation at the end of a statement he was proud to make. Now he feared it made him look childish. Even worse, impotent.

He could picture her rolling her eyes as he walked off, applying her eye shadow without even so much as a twitch when the door slammed. He hated her.

"Put on that mascara," he said to the cold, gathering dark. "Put it on nice and pretty and then go out and fuck some poor sap. Bitch."

The wind stopped. He spotted an empty vodka bottle on the sidewalk. He kicked it off the curb, sent it skidding and rolling across the street. It didn't break.

"Straddle the cowboy who emptied that bottle over there, see if I give a merry goddamn.” He chuckled bitterly, kept on walking. The wind picked up again.

He crossed a few more blocks in silence. Shades of black began to ink the purple sky. Stars dotted the high canvas. An icy sliver of moon hung over him like a blade.

He hungered for the sex everybody else in the world was having at this moment. But since he wasn't actually hard down there, he knew he craved something more ungraspable than a naked tit.

But sex took his mind off ungraspable things.

She said she didn't tolerate mind games. The People's Republic of Natalie does not tolerate mind games, so decreed by the empress herself as she leaned over a cracked bathroom sink.

"Oh yeah? But I'M supposed to tolerate your little mood swings, right?"

Bingo. Another great comeback that might have shifted the momentum, goddammit it.

What had he said? When she issued her little declaration about mind games, what did he say back to her? Something that sounded a lot smarter in the heat of the moment than it did now in the lonesome chill of a black night.

"Why don't you like mind games? Are you tired of losing?"

That look she gave him then, it shrunk all his internal organs. His mind scrambled back over the history of their eight-month-long relationship, trying to unearth any victory for him, any loss for her. No available data matched the search request.

As he tried to determine whether winning an argument was the same thing as winning a mind game, his own mind had gone blank. And before he knew it, he was walking out the door and slamming it, ruining his evening and probably the whole weekend too.

Now he shook his wrist out of one coat sleeve and checked his watch. 11:48 p.m.

She'd looked and smelled so good. Probably had even slipped on that black thong he'd bought for her back in August. He could not bear to imagine some other dude easing that thing off her hips. He'd go crazy.

He spotted a phone booth a block ahead. As his feet brought him closer to it, he plotted what he would say to her. How to apologize without losing his balls.

Hey there . . . yeah, I guess I ruined our night, I know . . . I know . . . but I wanted to tell you how good you looked tonight, and how good you smelled, and how I've been wishing we didn't have that stupid fight . . . so what are you doing now? . . . yeah? . . . awwww . . . would you like me to bring you some make-up cookies? . . . some make-up nookie?

He dug a quarter, two dimes and three pennies out of his pocket, put the quarter and one of the dimes into the slot and dialed her number. He felt warm again now, warm on the inside.

A man apologizes. A man sets things right. That's what a good woman expects a good man to do. To think she'd probably been sitting glumly by her phone, waiting for him to come around, it pained him.

He hoped she wouldn't be stubborn now just because it took him four or five hours to call.

He put the receiver to his ear. It rang twice. No answer. Three times. No answer. Six times. No answer, no machine. Nine times. Nothing. Twelve times. Nothing.

She wasn't home.

He stepped back and threw the receiver against the plastic wall of the phone booth. He picked it up and put it to his ear again. Still ringing. Still no answer.

He hung the payphone up. He could feel rage and the bitter wind overwhelming him. Staying sober these past several hours had been a waste of good judgment after all. He turned and resumed his way up the boulevard, anger quickening his pace.

She said, "I don't tolerate mind games."

And the words slithered across his mind like black snakes, hissing and full of poison. A woman knows a million phrases that can magically start an argument. That's one of the most popular.

"I'm not playing mind games, baby," he whined, internally. "God damn, I'm just trying to hold onto you, and you get more slippery every day."

That's what he should have said. Because that, you sins and sinners of the congregation, that would have been the truth. He'd been losing her for weeks, sensing it in the faintest of details that ceaselessly whispered at him when he wasn't with her.

Tonight, at last, he'd lost her. Now he knew it.

The night crashed on him like a wave. Even the stars withdrew from the sky. The wind howled. The boulevard stretched for blocks and miles and years. He kept on walking.

He had nowhere to go.

(( END ))