Friends With Complications

Her: "So, uh, are you two, uh...?"
Me: Nervous laughter
Him: Nervous laughter
Me: "No, we're, uh, friends..."
Her: Raised eyebrows "With benefits?"
Him: "Um..."
Me: "More like complications."

An old conversation. Out of date by several months. but leave it to me to remember the random things, some good memories, some bad, a few regrets wrapped up in the scent of Old Spice and Irish Spring, flowers, swamp goo, and the not-quite-clean of a boy/man's apartment. We had our share of complications, mostly my fault, but I asked the questions and he answered honestly. It wasn't really his fault, although I blame him for it sometimes. A lot of the time. I wished for him to do things, say things, and now I wish I could remember them, so I could do them or say them, to make this better. But I can't. "Why do you have to be so attractive?" If I only had a nickel for every time I said that to someone. Right along with "What does she have that I don't?" and the inevitable answer of "tits". But in all seriousness, powerlessness just sucks, in all its forms, no matter which side of the equation you're on. Which kinda makes me wonder where the power in these situations is. I was so sure he had it, but now in a different position, maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe I was wrong about a lot. I guess it's complicated.

I'm surprised I'm not grinning like an idiot. I love hearing that people think well of me. No surprise, who doesn't? But it's best when it's completely brutally honest, and still favourable. I like to hear the brutally honest, no-holds-barred, I-swear-I-didn't-know-you-were-listening opinions people have of me. It's probably narcissistic, and it's probably not very good for me, especially because it's not always a glowing review. But I can't help it, something in me wants to know how I appear to the outside world, because everything looks different depending on the eyes you're using. And every now and then, what people think of you has an effect. Sometimes you can teach yourself to see what they see.
I love the sound of the words she wrote as they roll around in my skull, staving off, at least for a couple of hours, that irritating voice full of derision and foul mood. Lit from within, all red lipstick and dark eyes, young and powerful, something dark, delicious, and alive.

I can't shake the guilt though. I'm not mad, not at her, though I don't think she believes it. It's the guilt that was bound to come back ever since I said "I wish I was a little more like him". Well, now I am a little bit, and I wish I wasn't. He revels in this, having the means to manipulate, to hurt. I just want to make all the hurt go away, and I don't know how.

The older I get, the shakier the foundations of my friendships seem, the old as well as the new. My closest oldest friend I didn't meet all that long ago. Next on the list is the one who I can barely quantify any more, all magnetism, memories, and Irish Spring. Most of the rest don't even seem like my friends, more like friends once removed, I wonder how many of them would still be around if I wasn't around him. I've never had good luck with making friends, I'm a little on the beige side, people don't tend to remember me. At least as far as I know. Every now and then the tables turn, the tide shifts, and I get to deal with the fallout. Sometimes it's more fun than others. Sometimes complications are my only real friends.

Maybe I can widen that circle a little bit.
Dream On
Daydream Believer