By: Wendy Wallace

"You're ugly.  You're neurotic. You're a bad writer." 
  
    James casts out these observations as if he were throwing darts and aiming for your eyes. 
        
    You say nothing. 
        
    He turns his back and staggers down the street.  You see him wave to an oncoming car.  The car turns out to be a cab.  It slows down and James gets in.  You watch the cab pick up speed and carry James passed you. 
     
     You wonder if James will remember everything he said to you when he wakes up in the morning.  He'll probably have a hangover, you assume.  He'll probably feel more sorry for himself than for the things he said to you. 
     
     The shock of his words is evaporating.  It's taken less and less time for the hurt to pass as the months have gone by.  You realize there's no point in standing outside any longer.  But you don't want to move just yet. You stay standing in front of your apartment building wearing an  
oversized T-shirt and a pair of underwear. The frigid concrete beneath your feet is causing your knees to shake. 
     
     You wonder why you jumped off the couch and practically sprinted to the intercom when you heard it buzzing.  You knew it would be James.  He was the only one who casually stopped by at 3 a.m. 
   
      You cross your arms and tilt your head back.  You look up at the black sky and you realize you've missed the ending of "Kiss Of The Spider Woman" and that you'll have to rent the movie to watch what you couldn't  
catch on TV once James was there. 
  
     Tequila always turned your stomach.  Even the smell of it made you queasy.  You are amazed at how James can drink it like holy water and how it turns him into the most erratic creature on Earth. 

        It wasn't so much what he had said.  It's that he knew the truth.  All along he could see right through you. He knew about all your insecurities.  It only took him a few hours at a bar to build up the steam  
needed to voice the thoughts that go through your mind every single day. 

        He had infiltrated your self-hate.  He had taken your well-worn mantras and drunkenly spit them out at your feet.  How could you be angry with him for that? 

        You remember the telephone conversation you had with him last week. You had said that you were convinced people had to be drunk before they could tolerate you.  The next day James stayed home from work and the two of you talked on the phone for eight hours. He was sober the whole time. 

        You close your eyes and rest your chin on your chest.  You let out a deep breath You pivot on your right foot and walk towards the front door of the building. 

        You let yourself in and turn to take one last look outside at the spot where tonight's drama had taken place. 

        You wonder if James got home OK.  You wonder when he'll come over again.