THE MEMORY OF SHANNIGANS

There's only so much rejection a person could handle before the essence of their soul dwindles away to nothing. All the promises. All the hope. She is this rejection. The only emotions her body desired was the feeling of love and the feeling of being wanted. But as she stood up against the wall clicking her flip flops together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, desperately wanting to go home, he walks by. They make eye contact. His steel blue eyes pierce through her like a dagger in her already fragile heart. The look on his face is dampered and unchanging, as though he's never met her before, when just weeks before her naked body was pressed up against his. They had a relationship. It was twisted and odd, but it was a relationship nonetheless. Everyday they would talk aimlessly about the events that occured just hours before. The conversation was brief and dull and felt forced, but it was a conversation that she appreciated. They never went on dates or socialized during the day. Although there was once that they visited a Jack-in-the-Box together and he paid. And the fact that he remember to get extra hot sauce, she felt was a sign of his true feelings toward her. Yet every other night was the same routine. He would pick her up, drive around for a little, then go back to his house, pretend to watch TV then end up together-sweaty and exhausted- in bed. He'd roll over, she'd spoon him and wake up to a pillow placed between them. But she was happy. It was the best relationship she'd ever had.
5 weeks later, with the routine embedded in her head the phone calls stopped. His designated ring, "My Boo" no longer rang, as much as she prayed it did. Usher and Alicia were dead. And so was her relationship with him. She called him once, twice, three times. His voicemail memorized to the key. She knew exactly how many rings it took before it picked up. She knew he stumbled over the word "message" and he was so drunk when he recorded it that it sounded more like "massage". She pictured his face laughing hysterically when he recorded it, because to him it was the funniest thing, "Hey its Phil. Phillip. Philly. Hey fucker... Whatever you want to call me. But I'm on the shitter. Really I am. Listen..." She knew this pause would last exactly 3.2 seconds. "But leave me a massage..." She hated herself for thinking this was the cleverist message ever, and she hated herself for always leaving them.
But after the 11th message, and still no return phone call, she knew it was over. The boxers she borrowed that one "magical" night now found themselves in that box in the corner of her closet. A disinfranchised collection of every lover she ever had. A collection that wasn't grouped together on purpose. Every piece was an accident. A borrowed CD, DVD, a sweatshirt. Her collection even included a passport, John Baker of Westminster. Now his black boxers would join the others.
Her "breakup" with him had a routine. One she followed with every one of them. First she ridded herself of any memory of them together. All the saved ticket stubs, dinner receipts. She trashed them all. She deleted all emails and saved text messages. Then, sigh, with every strength in her body she deleted his number from her cell phone. But since the number was so embedded in her brain, the act was futile. She knew if she wanted to call him, she still could and this scared her.
Flashforward 2 months, and here he is. At her bar. On her turf and he was ignoring her. Every emotion that she had repressed came storming back. Love, lust, anger and hatred. They all swirled inside her, and surfaced on her face. She wasn't sure if he noticed, or if he cared. He was surrounded by company. Tall, redheaded and gorgeous company. The cigarette burned to the filter in her left hand, as she watched him walk into the bar. His company turned and looked in her direction with a look of pure jealousy on her face. As the ash burned in between her fingers, as she tried to analyze about what exactly just happened... Was that girl jealous of her?? She knew that she was definitely jealous of that girl. Because she was gorgeous and because she had him.
With a deep breath and the drop of the cigarette butt, she walked back into the place that at one point in her night she held with such high expectations. She walked past him and her as they leaned up against the bar, in love, and without acknowledging her presence. But oddly enough, she felt the burn of 4 eyes as she took her seat back at the bar, next to a man she vowed she would leave with, for the sake of redemption. She ordered another shot and felt the burn of vodka go down her throat. Her feelings subsided with each drink until, once again, she was numb, drunk and horny. A pattern she knew all too well. A pattern that would set the path for the rest of her life.