Though he desperately refuses the conformities of modern novel tropes, George acknowledges he's just the same as every book character. A side character that is. Studying his way into writing a hit novel George has to master the ups and downs of his...
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"Embrasse moi. Quand tu voudras" Je te laisserai des mots Patrick Watson
George
There are times when I don't want to. I don't want to wake up early to go to a lecture. I don't want to sit behind a couple who won't shut up about each other. I don't want the person next to me to speak to me on my walk back to my dorm. I don't want to talk to Dream.
In the end that is just my bitter heart trying to break the tough mold I've glued around it. It took so long to trap it beneath itself, to keep the wretched green from seeping out into my bloodstream. If I hadn't I think I'd be alone. Everyone would see me in the raw and wouldn't like it, and that terrified me.
So, my comments remain buried beneath caramel smiles and gentle laughs, my ugly thoughts masked by music and poetry, and my wants smothered within lines and paragraphs of old English literature.
I don't want to talk to Dream right now, but here I am. Old ice skates gnaw into fresh ice as I push off the platform. Ice skating sucks. Sorry not sorry, it does. The sound is grating and the blisters on your feet afterward hurt bad enough to never want to walk again. Dream is a hockey player, one who thinks if he enjoys something so should everyone else. I pretend for him. I like his smile when I do.
"You look good on the ice." These comments are getting bolder and more off-putting as this week passes. Dream is stone-cold sober, yet sweet words keep slipping through his filter and it makes me overwrought. There is a line I've carved into the ice between us to keep it cordial or to save my heart from melting. I don't kiss him unless he kisses first, I don't touch unless he touches first, and I never let him flirt with me... anymore. A long time ago I allowed it, the sweet joke, but somewhere during high school it started to stain me. It needed to be stopped before I embarrassed Dream with my hopelessness.
"Stop," I say now.
"What?" Dream effortlessly leans against his hockey stick and looks like a model. I look away. "It's true."
I'm slowly circling the rink on wobbly legs and tired eyes. Last night was cram night as I had a test this morning. The history of the English language and grammar exam, it's the most boring thing I've had to learn so far in my four years of college.
"You know I don't like when you... flirt with me."
Dream chuckles like this is funny. Sandy bran hair brushing over to the side in false frigid air. I always wondered if I wouldn't have liked Dream if I wasn't attracted to him, if this would have happened regardless of his looks. He is a sight to see, all of the hockey team is in all honesty.
"It's not flirting, George." Dream sounds like air, clouds. "It's a compliment, idiot."
I turn away when the embarrassment rushes to my cheeks. It's a painful endeavor. This brings me to wonder what the fuck is wrong with me? I never have enough time to worry about my own emotions, something is wrong. Dream isn't ruling the story. This brings a realization, it's my cue to start fixing as the plot needs me to do. Give an emotional speech or point the main character in the correct direction. Dream's head is tilted at me with extensive concern.
