By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt

"You are what you love, not what loves you, I decided that a long time ago."
-Donald Kaufman, Adaptation.

Tarquin puts down his pen to drain the last of the grainy blackness from his cup and wipes the corner of his mouth. "Thanks a lot!" Chirpy Waitress spurts as she steals away the empty. Tarquin smiles, for a split second catches the eyes of Chirpy Waitress. "Thanks a lot" Tarquin replies, immediately wishing he hadn't. Chirpy Waitress pretends to ignore him and walks away. Why do I want to fall in love with every woman that shows me the least bit of attention? Tarquin puts his imitation Moleskine into his bag and begins to leave.

The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. The one hundred dollar a week apartment is colder than the outside and feels like another person besides the young Tarquin hasn't stepped into it's austere embrace for some time. He travels to the bathroom, coffee always makes me wee. Tarquin's satchel lay open; his cheap fake notebook lay exposed, the rounded corners resting out, glasses and various painkillers rolling in slow motion under the couch that folds out into a futon.

I may have done something bad. Something I may have underestimated and not fully understood. But now I'm in it and I have no idea where I stand. All I know now is that I am now responsible for some one's misery. It seems I can now scratch that one off the list. The sad truth is, that one may have been scratched off the list a long time ago and I may not have even realised it.

To be continued...