Rainy Days and Mondays (cont.)

Robert stood up, too, apparently he was going to my high school now. I rose to my feet and bent, gathering my things as he continued to talk.

“….so I can call sometime.”

What?

“Your number?”

Oh! Yes.

I rattled off the numbers to him, and he scribbled them onto the palm of his hand with a pen. It was just like in the movies, and I felt like I was floating on air.

Like everything good in my life, the relationship did not last long. It last about three months.
I can count the number of dates we had on one hand. Our first date, he was late.

We were supposed to go to the movies then out to eat. He wanted to eat first even though it was almost time for the movie to start. He seemed to think we’d get done in time. We’ll just miss those annoying commercials, he had said. We sat across from each other at the table and made small talk, but we soon ran out of things to say. During one of those awkward silence periods, I looked up from my food to find him staring out of the window at this slender brunette wearing tight, black dress pants.

“I really love that kind of pants.” He said with a grin.

You do?

“Yeah.” He paused then added. “I mean, I bet you’d look nice in them.”

I looked away, mumbling something to him with a small smile. Nice try, I thought.

We missed the movie.


Robert had a favorite spot on the female body, a kind of fetish I suppose you could call it, and it happened to be the spot between my legs covered by striped Fruit of the Loom and a glistening zipper. I found this out not long after we starting dating, if you could call it dating, that is. We kissed on the lips once in the three months we dated, and it was just a small peck, a teasing sample of what most other girls’ boyfriends would bestow upon them. We hardly went out together, and when we did, it was nothing romantic at all. I felt more like I had a close friend. A friend that poked and prodded me whenever he saw fit.

The first time he had leaned over, his lips hovering by my ear, I felt giddy. I thought maybe he was going to tell me he loved me in person as we had only casually tossed out the words as an end to our phone conversations.

I was wrong.

The words he brushed into my ear were neither endearing or romantic in the least, rather he was explaining this deep need he felt to touch me. “Just let me poke it.” He had murmured.
That was one of those times when I wished I could have seen my expression. It must have been something between confusion and disgust. The word ‘no’ spilled from my lips sharply like a sudden gust of November wind, cold and blunt.

It was like I hadn’t spoken at all. He pressed and pressed and begged and begged until I nervously and shamefully murmured a low ‘fine.’ He definitely heard that, and I looked away from him, shuddering a little as I felt the tip of his finger press against me. It was through my jeans of course, but that didn’t make it better. I swallowed hard, feeling completely violated, and the bell rang.

I had never been so happy to hear it.

I thought that I heard the last of it, but it was a false hope. It continued on and on without stop, and was a constant topic of argument between us. He then began to explore his other options, touching my butt and then my breast. All with my clothes still on, but still, every time I felt worse and worse.

Then it happened.

One morning as I was sitting in the cafeteria with him beside of me, he leaned over and asked me again. I had grown so tired of the question that I merely just shrugged and waited for it to be over. Today was different, however, and instead of just a poke, he grabbed the spot and began to move his fingers along it in an almost massaging motion. I cringed and stiffened. The bell rang, and I practically leapt from the seat, murmured a farewell and rushed from the room.

When I got home, I cried until my eyes stung and I nearly passed out on my bed.

I was awakened by my mother shaking me to answer a call. It was Robert.

That was our last phone conversation, and the next morning, mom found a bowl and spoon in the sink with lingering traces of orange sherbet.


I battled a minor case of depression afterwards, for about the same time I lost my first boyfriend, I lost my grandfather to a brain tumor. It was a rough time, but just a month or two after this, I met Jacob.

Jacob seemed to fit my model for my dream guy perfectly.

He had shaggy, black hair and lovely blue eyes. He wore gothic style clothes like I did, listened to rock music like I did, and he loved to write and draw, just like me. He was perfect.

I met Jacob through my best friend at the time, Naomi. She was taking a French class, and he was in the same class. I had seen him everyday at school while waiting on Naomi to come out of French. He always glanced at me as he passed, and I looked back, admiring him. He came up in random conversation between me and Naomi quite often, though I didn’t know his name.

I called him a “blue-eyed angel.”