A Short Story from the Perspective of Albert Cadiz
Today I had fantastic sex followed by extreme nervousness that ended up being the beginnings of an anxiety attack.
Naturally: I panicked.
With shaky arms and burning knees I stumbled in the direction of what I assumed to be my restroom. Unfortunately, my directional skills had betrayed me, as well as my unfortunate timing, life, and the universe as a whole.
I was now standing in the hallway of my apartment building.
For any other human being this may be no problem. Just walk back into your apartment and forget about it. But I am not any other human being. No. I am over analytical, I am slow about my methods, I am beyond nervous and I have a peculiar tendency to stand as far the fuck away from other people as humanly possible. Some people call it misanthropy, I call it really liking hating everyone else.
Once I finally realized, and will tell you about, the mistake I had made, you, (said reader) realized why the universe had betrayed me.
There she was. The girl I had sex with sitting on the left side of my apartment door with a face so red the only other shade I could think to compare to it was her tear filled eyes.
My heart stopped. My nerves exploded. I was going to walk in and pretend like nothing happened, but the love of god wouldn’t let me.
"Hey," she said.
"I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to see me like this." She said this, however she made no effort to hide herself. "I just had an anxiety attack leaving. I don’t know why. I just don’t think you really love me."
I hadn’t given it much thought. I say blank things all the time, and I manage to do that because I secretly hate everyone. You, my reader, are the only one that knows. You’re the only one that understands me if you’ve read this much, and I am more grateful to you for your attention than I am to her for the sex.
"I’m happy you do."
Her phone rang and she kissed me and told me how happy she was and I bullshited some sympathy adoration to get her to go away. I ran back into my room, found the restroom, grabbed my emergency supply of oxycontin nobody knows about, and did what comes naturally when you give a closet junky/misanthrope/depressed human being drugs.
While I was high I thought about her. About why I can’t fall in love with her.
Vanessa. Since Vanessa I haven’t been able to fall in love with anyone. Not even this poor little red faced teary eyed girl who’s name will remain anonymous for the sake of a secret literary technique.
But now you’re here, dear reader. You’re here and you listen to me, and if you got this far you did it because you understand me, even if it’s just a little. Nobody’s making you read it. You went through a passage about somebody you don’t know because you were interested.
I love that you care.
And the fact that you care is making this panic attack go down. I’m not panicking, I’m just thankful you’re here.
And the more you read the more half-in-love with you I am.