It was her laugh, that got me interested—deep, and high, and genuine. After my morning workout, I bought coffee from her, and I asked her about the joke of the day. She couldn’t wait to tell me… and then she would laugh. Soon, I asked her out. It was a chemical reaction, like we were passing it to each other through the air.
Then I met her family, and her sister. Her sister was the depressed type, kind of a walking zombie with far-off dreams that weren’t coming true. Strangely, it was her sister that started to find nice things to say about me. She told me I was smart, and that I had some insight. Then she showed me her favorite Netflix binge-watching episodes.
Katie was jealous.
Women, rarely get along. There’s a secret competition between them, if not down-right hostility, but as soon as a man does something wrong, they have a united front.
Courtney was painting sad colors on her envelops, with a wistful sigh. She had an artistic bent. The bottle of anti-depressants was on her table, which made a clear statement— mental health should be in the open. The people who really are crazy, don’t think to hide, or maybe, they don’t know why others won’t accept them for who they are.
Both sisters were alike, with blonde hair. Courtney had gained weight, because of her pills, and Katie had curves. She was wild. You can’t tame a woman like that. The best thing you can do is stay on her good side. Once a woman turns on you, she can watch you dying in the street. Five minutes later, she’s helping an old man cross the street. Men are safe with women if they engage the maternal instinct, but anything else, is fraught with danger.
Katie started to bust my balls, and I didn’t know why.
“Andy, are you going to dress like that for the movie?”
Then I said nice things about her sister, but this only made it worse.
“If you want to get with her—then get with her.”
“What? I don’t like her that way.”
“You’re a liar. I can always tell when guys lie to me.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You need to make me feel like you love me.”
“Why don’t you ask your friend? He treats his girl right.”
And then there was silence.
In the following days, I called, but she didn’t pick-up, and when I called with a different phone, she did.
“Andy, can I call you back? I’m on the other line with my friend.”
I could sense the coldness in her voice—it had been warm, not that long ago. I didn’t even know what I had done. Women are a mystery. It’s okay when some other guy is murdered, but when it’s you, and you’re dead to her, it feels different.