Author's Note: This is a work of fiction using characters from the the HBO series Girls (Season 2 episode 9). The characters Hannah and Adam are owned by Lena Dunham and HBO and I do not claim any ownership over them. This story does not ascribe completely to official story canon and is intended for entertainment outside of the official storyline owned by the author. This story is for entertainment only and I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story. Enjoy!
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I don't drink.
And not in a "I abstain from the devil's nectar" kind of way; more in a "I go to court ordered AA every Thursday at the Y" kind of way. Why drugs and alcohol so deeply allure people like me is a mystery; but now I just focus on my work, pouring everything I've got into any creative outlet that doesn't require me to be anyone's slave. And if misery is the food of art, then baby, I'm feasting.
Getting over a breakup is difficult any time you do it, for any reason you do it, but mine and Hannah's had been a spectacular catastrophe.
Our last fight ended with most of the furniture in Hannah's apartment (and most of my right knuckles) broken and that alluring, frustrating bitch screaming,
"Adam, take one step into this apartment again...No, this burrow!... and I'll break your fucking neck!"
I knew if I stayed any longer someone would call the cops or I'd just fucking break down like a bitch and apologize just to rip those panties off one more time... As I walked out of Apt. C at 669 Barney's Street for the last time, broken plates crackled under my boots, and one more picture frame clattered against the wall beside me for good measure because that sexy cunt couldn't stand not to get the last lick in.
Yea, Hannah had me fucked up. And every day, as a pulled my cock, I couldn't decide if I wanted her to suck it just one more time, or if I wanted to choke her pretty ass to death with it.
One month later I had a new girlfriend.
Angela.
She was pretty.
And sweet.
And styled her hair perfectly every day, wore pencil skirts, expensive "blouses", and coordinated her shoes and jewelry.
I just loved to watch her bounce.
When we went running together I loved to watch her dark, waist-length pony tail bounce. I love to watch her perky B cups bounce above her sports bra, which always color coordinated with her yoga pants, (that also held her ¼ Puerto Rican ass that also bounced) every time her feet hit the pavement.
Even her personality bounced and bubbled as we went to the movies to see garbage rom-coms and talk about her dad's business (where she made 6 figures pushing paper).
I could pretend for this girl. I could pretend that she was my type and that I enjoyed our mostly missionary sex and drab conversations. I could pretend I never thought about Hannah.
But tonight, I couldn't.
We were out for Angela's friend's engagement party at a chic loft on the side of town where people barricaded themselves from New York trash (like me) with elegant metal fences and gobs of borrowed money. I walked in and realized immediately that I didn't belong amongst the Yankee candles and robots deceitfully dressed like humans in their crisp "evening" Polos and boat shoes. However, admitting that I didn't belong here would be admitting that I also didn't belong in Angela's world. And that leaves me back a square one.
Finally, after my third time telling a stranger that I had no idea who was going to be in the playoffs, I bolted outside for some fresh air.
The night air hit me like a cold shower and pulled me mercifully out of this superficial, one-dimensional world.
Then she was there.
Right in front of me, like a dream.
"Adam?" Hannah blurted out.
"Heyyyy you..." I stammered back. A month suddenly seemed like an eternity.
God she looked great. Even in her baggy t-shirt, tiny graffiti shorts, sloppy blonde bun and not one lick of makeup, her big blue eyes mesmerized me on the spot like they did back when we first became met. Back when I couldn't ever think of what to say unless I looked away from those eyes...
I suddenly remembered the first time we met and Hannah looked almost just like this... except her pupils were about 4x's bigger (apparently that had been because of all the mushrooms) and her hair was shorter and faded pink. We had both danced like rave girls and sweated our asses off in Dave Sheppard's filthy fucking garage in Staten Island. She'd ridden my back like a bucking bronco during her favorite Misfits song and her mouth tasted like bubble gum and cigarettes when we made out on Dave's greasy bathroom counter.
"So what's up?" she asked, pulling me back to the reality of this moment, as she stepped forward to hug me, out of her undeniable social programming.
I involuntarily took a step back, remembering our last encounter.
She recoiled.
"I guess we aren't huggers..." she said, painfully trying to keep things light.
"Nope." I said.
Awkward pause.
"So how are you?" Hannah asked, with only a smidgen of fake perk in her voice.
"Great. I'm uhh... here with me girlfriend, Angela. Her friend got engaged." I managed to get out. When did it get so hot out here?
"Oh, well that's cool. You have a girlfriend..." she said with a shell-shocked tone she couldn't scramble quickly enough to cover up, "The kind of girlfriend whose friends get engaged. So...I bet she's great..." She looked down at her feet, shuffling her dirty, paint-covered chucks, bun sliding adorably to the side.
She'd probably been in the studio all day, I wondered absentmindedly...
An entire universe passed through us in that quiet moment. Our unconventional, toxic relationship was a mystery to most and an explosive trip for us. I'd never felt so alive as I did with Hannah.
"Oh!" suddenly she perked up, those big blue eyes lighting up like Christmas.
I almost fucking smiled.
"I had a show last night! At the Brown Scarecrow. Like six of my pieces got bought so now I can actually pay Julie back for all that back-rent I fucking owe her. Jesus you should've seen that dumb cunts face when I told her I had a show at the Crow... It was claaaasic. She can't stand to see me actually make it doing this shit. But anyway...I hope you enjoy the party. And uummm...."
She was babbling and she knew it.
She always did this when she was uncomfortable (or stoned off her gourde).
And for a moment I saw a hint of panic behind those doe eyes (were those fucking tears?)
"I gotta go. See ya." I mumbled turning quickly and bolting for the door to go inside before I reached out and actually kissed her pouty lips (Were they trembling?)
There's no way she felt the way I did. She ended this. She's the one who "couldn't stand one more minute of this demented shit-show."
I took the stairs up to the loft three at a time shaking my head like there was water in my ears.
Once back in my personal Manhattan hellhole (god this place smelled like a Pottery Barn...) I scanned the room for Angela.
Angela.
I just needed to find Angela.
Find her, and I could just go back to pretend world. We were doing great five minutes ago, weren't we??
"You ready to get out of here, babe?" she offered as she walked up. Jesus yes...
"Yea. If you are."
We linked arms and started down the stairs, giving the party of robots the old Irish goodbye.
"Thanks for coming babe. I know these aren't your type of people."
"Your people are my people." I said, pecking her on the head waaay too hard. My whole body language was off and I couldn't quit checking over my shoulder. Why would Hananh even be on this side of town? Why was I spazzing? And why was Angela so daft to it all?
Before I could push the thought out of my head I realize this woman didn't know one fucking thing about the real me... She couldn't even tell that the feelings emanating off of me right now were not the simple discomfort and basic unease of being out of place at a party.
My insides were on fire.
Hannah had seared me like a cattle prod right on the sidewalk....
And all this silly, pretty girl could see was the slight discomfort of her new, eccentric boyfriend who didn't like sports or have an opinion about the best harbor to keep your boat during winter season. And liked to make shit with his hands, but didn't want to make you a fucking "indo-style, feng-shui friendly coffee table" that you will literally never use as actual furniture.
She chattered away about (something?) as we bustled down the sidewalk, not stopping until we reached a bar with some of Angela's friends who also chose an early exit from the festivities. Apparently this was our intended destination?
"We don't have to go in," she said, "I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
Ahh, lets not forget the allure of the damaged, ex-alcoholic artist...
"No," I blurted, "I want to be able to show you a good time. Let's have fun with your friends." Did my voice sound as frantic as I felt?
She gave me a quizzical look, finally unsure if I was being genuine. But she smiled, obviously not wanting to think too hard on the subject. That would have required acknowledging some things that were nowhere near the surface of this glaring façade...
So inside we went. And with a surety I hadn't used in years, I order us two beers and some shots.
Angela gave me a smile, happy to see that I was finally loosening up.
I was on the precipice, knowing already that I was going to jump. And drown.
We drank. We danced. We drank more. Angela laughed and twirled in the dim light and subtle jazz.
I jumped without a second thought and fell; tumbled headlong into scorching bliss. Anything to disappear from myself.
After waaay too many drinks to navigate the underground, we decided on a cab to my side of Brooklyn. My apartment was a place I had kept far from Angela's sight. But I was on a warpath of self-destruction tonight. We giggled and stumbled our way up the stairs.
Here we are...
Strewn everywhere was my reality.
Piles of wood and tools were scattered everywhere and stacks of books that had never seen a shelf ran down the hallway to the bed room. Loose nails from my latest build didn't' allow for bare feet and a single lamp kept the darkness out a little.
"What do you think?" I slightly slurred.
"It umm," Angela struggled for the words, "It just needs a woman's touch."
"Does it make you think differently about me?" I asked cynically already knowing the answer.
"Nooo" She smiled a little too hard to hide her lie, "It's just so... I don't know depressing? Not like you at all."
If only you knew.
"Hey you," she walked up and rested her tiny, delicate hands on my chest. Apparently I wasn't doing a great job keep my mask on. I let my eyes slog their way up from the ground to meet hers.
"I love it." She lied again. Her hands started rubbing up and down my chest, attempting to comfort me, again, for the wrong thing entirely.
The drunken haze enveloped me. Her hands had begun to graze my nipples and move in bigger circles, kneading my chest. My dick twitched to life in my pants.
My chest was on fire:
This girl clueless girl...
