《Conversations with Myself》


 Foreword

    Foreword


    We¡¯ve all been there: our hearts pounding, our nostrils flared, our face on fire, and our knuckles white against the steering wheel as we think about the audacity of this person that has angered us. But then, after a minute or so of fuming, we remember that this person hasn¡¯t actually done anything to us. We got here solely on the made-up conversation we were imagining. Then, inevitably, the imagined conversation either falls far short of our fury, or, worse yet, doesn¡¯t happen at all. What are we supposed to do with all of this anger we¡¯ve accumulated? What do we do with the thoughts we had lined up to fire at these people should they step one imaginary toe out of line?The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    As someone who has had many of these conversations over the years, I¡¯ve often found myself wishing I had the opportunity to use my imagined arguments, sometimes to the point of instigating the argument myself. As you can imagine, this has not usually worked out well for me.


    But as I¡¯ve been writing, I¡¯ve discovered that these imaginary conversations may not need to go to waste anymore. Thus, Conversations with Myself, a collection of short stories composed of wasted anger and unnecessary stress.


    So, here they are, the conversations I wished I¡¯d had¨Cand the ones I¡¯m glad I didn¡¯t.

 Coffee Shop Confrontation

    Coffee Shop Confrontation


    He sat, his laptop on the table in front of him, the window to his left looking out onto the busy street outside his local coffee shop. It was a lovely Saturday morning in San Diego. Despite Christmas being only a week away, the weather was a cool 67 degrees outside.


    He looked back from the passing traffic to the word document pulled up in front of him. He came here every Saturday to write. He had found it was a good place for him to focus his thoughts outside of the home, especially after a particularly brutal week. As he sipped his caramel frappe with extra whipped cream and caramel, courtesy of the friendly staff who had come to know his order by heart, he was reminded that this was also a way he had developed to treat himself.


    As he placed his frappe back down on the table and started to type again, his peripherals caught the last thing he wanted to see today: her. He¡¯d know her hair anywhere. As his eyes glanced up unintentionally, his worst fears were confirmed: her black, curly hair, her thin frame, her light brown skin¡­there was no doubt it was her.


    Shit, he thought to himself, what do I do?


    Their last meeting had been amicable, but time had not done much to heal his heart. Even after the intensive outpatient program and the medication, he still found himself struggling to survive some days nine months after the fact.


    His glance lasted no more than a second before he focused his attention back to the screen in front of him. He continued to stare at his monitor, unseeing, as she walked in and to the counter. Had she seen him when she walked in? He didn¡¯t dare risk even his peripherals catching her attention. He listened as the voice that served as his place of refuge for almost six years ordered her drink. Listened as the barista behind the counter made idle conversation. He tried his hardest to fight the growing maelstrom of guilt, agony, and stress that was building in his chest. He also fought against the simultaneous anger and resentment that accompanied it. He could feel the heat building around his ears and at the back of his neck. Felt his heart race rapidly in his chest. Felt the tightening in his throat. He listened as her order was called out and she thanked the barista, turning to leave. Then, he heard it¡­


    ¡°Is this seat taken?¡± she asked, her voice cautious.


    The raging battle between sorrow and rage swirled out before he had a chance to contain it. ¡°What makes you think you have the right to talk to me at this point?¡± he asked her, his tone deeper and more aggressive than he¡¯d wished. He dared not look at her, but he could still see her face¨Cafter almost six years, you don¡¯t forget such things easily.


    ¡°Wow,¡± she said, her own temper beginning to flare, ¡°okay then.¡± She turned and began to walk toward the door.


    He knew the sass in her voice. Knew the rise she was trying to get out of him just with the way she said it. Just leave it, he thought to himself. Then he heard her mutter, ¡°Rude asshole,¡± and the dam broke.


    She just can¡¯t help herself, can she? he thought. He knew she had intentionally said it just loud enough for him to hear. It¡¯s how she always did it. Always saying the one thing that she knew would make him feel enough to jump back into the fight.


    He stood up. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, excuse me? Rude?!¡± The maelstrom was in full swing now, the swirling mass of rage and despair twisted inextricably together. ¡°Rude? No, I¡¯m not being rude. I¡¯m being perfectly reasonable.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    He could feel the eyes of everyone in the coffee shop on him. He hated this. He didn¡¯t like making scenes in public, and he hated looking like the bad guy. But the die was already cast.


    ¡°Perfectly reasonable to the woman who left me to drown when I was at my lowest point¨Cstruggling and broken. Perfectly reasonable to the woman who had moved on with the vine she had been holding onto within three months of leaving the man she had been with for almost six years; the man she had promised to spend the rest of her life with. To the woman who swore she wanted a family¨Cuntil her theater dreams mattered more. Until it was ¡®impossible¡¯ to do both. Perfectly reasonable to the woman who made me realize that there is, in fact, a rational and logical component to suicide! The woman who has the audacity to sit there and wonder how her mother can attract so many good men and then leave them broken as she walks away with a profit.¡±


    His eyes were alive with the pain and fire he felt, he could see it in her reaction. He scoffed. ¡°Well, congratulations. I¡¯m glad I was able to help you answer that question.¡±


    That did it. He saw the hurt in her eyes at his comparison to the monster in her life. He felt a momentary twinge of regret as he saw the hurt he inflicted. Despite his rage, he still hated seeing her in any pain, but his own pain and rage couldn¡¯t be abated.


    Her jaw had tightened as he spoke. For a second, her expression softened, like she wanted to say something¨Capologize, argue, explain¨Cbut the mask of anger snapped back into place. She moved to slap him, but his hand shot up, catching her wrist. Her skin was warm¡­familiar¡­for a moment, his mind was taken back to all the times he had held her hand: in bed, at dinner, at the store, in the car during drives. Even though he held her wrist firm, he could still feel how soft her skin was¨Cthe softest he had ever felt. He remembered the night he first realized that. The surge of memory flooded him in an instant and he felt the trembling, but it wasn¡¯t hers, it was his own.


    ¡°See that¡¯s the thing, Jos,¡± he said, some of his pain sneaking through the cracks of his anger, ¡°you¡¯re not a mystery to me. I know you. I spent six years with you. I devoted my life to you. I know who you are¡­and I chose to love you.¡± He felt a weak, half-smile form on his lips and he scoffed incredulously. ¡°But you know what? You may get lucky and find someone else who is as dedicated to you and your growth and happiness as I was, but you¡¯ll never find anyone who¡¯s more dedicated than I was.


    ¡°So good luck spending the rest of your life searching for something equal to the thing you once had and gave up.¡±


    He could feel the tears threatening to start behind his eyes, stinging them as though he hadn¡¯t blinked in a full minute. He turned, leaving her standing at the door. Whatever face she wore, he didn¡¯t know. He refused to look. Refused to acknowledge. He had given her everything. He had never left her side. He hadn¡¯t been perfect, but no relationship ever is. And when he had finally seen his errors, when he had finally started changing for the better, she left him. He spent months swimming in guilt. He still did, truth be told. He had given her nine months to come to her senses. To realize that she had made a mistake. But she never did.


    Now he realized she never would. The woman he kept torturing himself with was just an echo of the woman she was. The only one torturing him at this point was himself. He was giving her this power in his heart¡­and he couldn¡¯t do it anymore. He wouldn¡¯t.


    He sat back down at the table and stared intently at the screen in front of him. The guilt he felt about his role in their relationship would never truly go away. In time, he¡¯d learn to live with the scars, but he was done reopening them.

 If I Said What You Said

    If I Said What You Said


    ¡°I wonder if he has a girlfriend,¡± the barista said as the customer left the coffee shop.


    ¡°I know, like I want to ask him,¡± said the second.


    ¡°You know, he¡¯s in the military!¡± the third chimed in.


    ¡°I know, but not just in the military, he¡¯s in like psychology too!¡±


    The baristas continued their praise of the oblivious customer as he crossed the road.


    As the man crossed, Alex glanced up to see what had attracted them to not only ogle as he left but actively pull him into their conversation. After all, he had been coming here for about six months now and had never been pulled into their conversations the way this man, or others they found attractive, had been. In fact, any conversations he had had were initiated by him.


    He watched as the man crossed. Red hair parted on the left and swooped to the right, a neatly trimmed short beard, broad shoulders, simple jeans with a long-sleeved blue shirt¨Csimple, but stylish.


    It was like looking in a mirror¡­ well, almost. The only difference that Alex could see was that this man was about 5''10" to 6''0" tall, as opposed to his 5''3". Oppression hit Alex in the chest, weighing his heart to sit on his diaphragm.


    This wasn¡¯t the first time this kind of thing had happened. It had only been a few weeks ago that the baristas had begun making similar conversation about another attractive customer.


    ¡°I just prefer guys that are tall,¡± the one barista had said. ¡°Like, it¡¯s whatever if you¡¯re short, but I¡¯m just not attracted if they¡¯re not like 6''0".¡±


    That comment had screwed up his morning and caused him to leave the shop hours before he normally would have. It¡¯s not like he was uncomfortable with his height, quite the opposite in fact. But him being okay with his height didn¡¯t change the way it affected his life or how he was perceived by others. Or how, despite the many great qualities he did have, he would never get the opportunity to showcase them before being outright rejected from the get-go.


    He sat, staring blankly at his screen as he tried to push the event away, but he could feel the hurt and anger eating away at him. He could feel it, simmering underneath, threatening to boil over. He rolled his eyes and closed his laptop, collecting its cord and packing everything up.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    He grabbed his things and walked to the counter. He paused, heart thudding in his ears. He knew he would likely regret speaking up, but the hypocrisy had become too much to bear.


    ¡°You know,¡± he began, forcing a laugh, ¡°I was swiping on this dating app the other day and was so upset that it was only showing me fat girls. I only get so many matches a day, and half of them were being taken up by these women. I tried to look in my preferences setting, but I couldn¡¯t find anything about having them filter out overweight women.¡±


    The baristas all looked at him with shock and disgust.


    ¡°That¡¯s pretty rude,¡± said one of the larger ones. ¡°You should be more tolerant of women¡¯s bodies, you know. That¡¯s super shallow.¡± She rolled her eyes. ¡°Ugh, fatphobia is such a problem nowadays.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± scoffed the second.


    He shrugged and smiled to himself. He had them.


    ¡°Yeah, I guess it is pretty shallow to judge someone based on those kinds of things, huh? Although, it¡¯s funny that wanting someone who takes care of themselves is ¡®fatphobic,¡¯ and yet it¡¯s perfectly fine to openly talk about how you¡¯re only attracted to tall guys.¡±


    He threw the hypocrisy in their face and watched as it slid off like a kid on a water slide.


    ¡°Um, that¡¯s just our personal preference,¡± the third said. ¡°Some women struggle their whole life with their weight, you know, and it¡¯s guys like you who push those unrealistic expectations on them to stay small and skinny.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± he responded, anger flaring. ¡°It¡¯s unreasonable for me to have preferences based on weight¨Ca factor that can be largely controlled by the individual¨Cbut your preference for my height, something I can¡¯t change regardless of anything I do, is perfectly acceptable. I mean, not even getting into all of the health problems that are associated with obesity¨C"


    ¡°Well, there are plenty of health problems related to anorexia,¡± the larger one retorted.


    ¡°Who said anything about anorexia?!¡± he scoffed. ¡°Hell, I¡¯m honestly not even saying they have to be thin. If anything, I prefer some meat on them. All I said was I didn¡¯t like fat women, and that, for some reason, is a problem.¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re being¨C¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯m being discriminatory about a preference that can be controlled and yet you¡¯re not?¡± He paused and took a deep breath, for all the good it did for his heart rate. ¡°Look, all I¡¯m saying is, I know people have preferences, but just be aware that openly sharing them the way you were, especially about things they can¡¯t control, can affect others. It hurts being told openly that something you can¡¯t control is undesirable. You don¡¯t consider it acceptable for me to talk about not liking fat women. It wouldn¡¯t be acceptable if I talked about how I wasn¡¯t attracted to a certain race of women. Why is height somehow different?¡±


    With that, he turned and stormed out. As he walked away, anger cooling into a dull headache, he knew nothing had really changed. He¡¯d said his piece, but it probably wouldn¡¯t matter. The double standard would remain, and he''d always be the villain in their version of the story.