Before We Blew It Up

9| Before

Reasonably, I know that what I'm doing is stupid. If my meds had the personal embodiment of my doctor, they'd be pelting me right now. A headache lightly pounds behind my eyelids – could be the lack of sleep, or a warning sign of an oncoming flu, or a side effect of missing the medications. Could also just be a headache from not having breakfast. It's hard to tell. That, along with the wheezing in my chest that now doesn't want to go away, I swallow the last pill, even though it shouldn't be. From a slew of medications and doses, I only took about... three-quarters? Half?

I put the basket of medicines away, the noise of the drawer closing oddly loud in the quiet hotel room. Every time I put that basket away, I wish I never have to see it again. It or my vest and nebulizer. But it doesn't frustrate me as much as it did a week ago, or before yesterday. I know that's not because of a newfound outlook on life and terminal illnesses, but because of a distraction.

A distraction in the form of a six foot something, blond haired, cute but masculine Damon McKnight who says very romantic things. Maybe that's why I agreed to the second date; because I know it literally won't last, and it doesn't matter if he's operating on a much faster timeline because he's just a distraction.

I brush my fingers over my lips, remembering the almost-kiss-that-wasn't-a-kiss from yesterday. The way he leaned in close, eyes a green storm of sincere, dark thoughts, and the way he held me, like I was something precious. The way I wanted, and still want, more, and I know that, more than a need for a distraction, is why I'm currently dressed up. Not to be distracted, but to know and have more of him.

Realizing my thoughts are veering into dangerous, unfair territory, I grab my purse off my bed and leave the bedroom into the living room slash dining room slash kitchen. The apartment has a fairly open spaced design, but like most hotel rooms, it's more... cramped, with everything being in one place. Or maybe it just feels that way because the last time I stayed in a hotel was with extended family, and it was a... squeeze.

For some reason, that makes the relatively small apartment seem larger now that it's just me. More empty. Or maybe it just seems that way since I've grown used to having a roommate. Pushing back the sigh, I head towards the door, but not before catching my slightly blurred reflection on the television screen.

Normally, I don't obsess over what I'm wearing, and the odd sense of nervousness and excitement over meeting someone – a guy, nonetheless – is foreign. It settles over my skin in a tight way, making me both want to fidget and jump around. If only Layla could see me now.

I still don't stop myself from messing with my bangs and rolling my lips, tasting the strawberry flavored gloss I put on. I'd like to say the jeans and half tucked in silk blouse is how I normally dress, but compared to everything else I packed (pajamas, sweats, the occasional casual wear, and more pajamas) I didn't come to San Francisco with the anticipation of needing to dress nicely.

The urge to do that faded a long time ago anyway. Instead, I'm more worried about whether I'm cutting my meds slow enough or not nearly fast enough.

Physically shaking my head, I look away from my reflection and put on my shoes. I'd contemplated heels, if only to seem taller and more... womanly. Sometimes, with my short height and narrow hips and breasts, I still feel like an adolescent playing dress-up. But Damon said there'd be walking – that there always is when it comes to SF – so I slip on my Converse.

And hope for the best.

********

The place he told us we'd meet up is relatively empty. Which is a shame, considering it's a library. I'm early, so I use the time to explore it, excited to learn that it's not a public library, and is more of a mix between a bookstore and a library. Half the shelves have books for borrowing, and then the other half have books for sale. But if you borrow a book and later buy it, you get a twenty percent discount.