DionRabouin.com (sort of)


“I hate waiting,” I told her. She looked back at me ever so coyly. She grinned.

“Well,” she began. “I can help you with that.” And she smiled again, just as coy and just as self-assured.

She couldn’t help me; it wasn’t something that could be helped. I didn’t want to wait. I hate waiting. I hate waiting in line, I hate waiting to be served at bars, I hate waiting for the food to get there at restaurants, but more than anything I hate waiting for girls. Waiting for them to be ready, whatever that means.

So we danced. She wasn’t any good. But then, she was one of those super-white, rich girls that attended my super-white, rich girl college, so I wasn’t surprised. What was somewhat surprising was how good she thought she was. When she danced she got this look on her face, as if she could feel my loins quake for her, as if when she shook her hips the very heavens themselves moved for her and I was to be in awe of her majesty. The funny thing was, she meant it.

The bravado she posed was not the least bit artificial and yet she wasn’t the least bit conceited or vain or any of the other adjectives generally associated with self-obsession that so many of them are. It was that awe of grandeur, that luminosity she had about her that first drew me. And here we were.
“It’ll happen,” she said, as she dodged my attempt at a kiss. “Just wait for it.”

I hate waiting.

I hate the thought of waiting. I hate even that little bit of waiting that eventually leads to something spectacular and worth waiting for. Some people say things are better when you wait for them. Maybe for them.

Eventually I got tired of dancing. It wasn’t so much that I was tired of playing the game – which I was – or that I was tired of waiting – which I was – I was just tired of dancing with this girl who I so admired and adored, who took such great pleasure in her greatly misappropriated ability to dance. So I left.

I found myself in something of a bungalow. It was a club or a bar or a hangout or something, that was entirely too big for what it was and too small for what it wanted to be. We’d somehow been reserved the VIP bungalow because it was his birthday and he had invited us all. It was the night after we’d won the volleyball tournament and just minutes after they had destroyed the trophy I brought out with me to celebrate.

As I entered the bungalow there she was. Not she being she, but she being the other object of my attention. I’d wanted them both, not having a preference for one over the other, and having given myself little, if any, realistic shot at either. We talked. She and I, she not being she, but the other object of my affection, and after it became obvious that she would, I said, “You can’t kiss me.”

“Why?” She inquired. There was no real answer. She hadn’t even crossed my mind since I began talking to her, she being she and her being the other object of my affection, that is.

“I don’t know,” I said, and with that we kissed. Not in a way people kiss when they care about each other, but in a way that people who don’t know each other and have had a bit to drink kiss. And as we kissed, out of the corner I saw her, her being she, and my heart dropped. Everything she and I had shared flashed before my eyes. The days we’d sat around laughing, the night at the hot tub when she’d gotten a little too drunk and I had to carry her to her room. The proposal from my friend that I’d rebuffed because, “I want her too.”

I’d gotten what I’d wanted, but I’d also destroyed it. Everything had manifested itself into an irreversibly real situation all because I couldn’t wait. I hate waiting.


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