The Patient Sikh: Part Twenty-Three--What's Love Got To Do With It?

This an excerpt from a novel in progress and a work of fiction.

So we are sitting in the car, there is music on in the background. Sonny and I have not said anything in a few minutes. I don’t know what to say at this point.

“So how have you been?” he asks me, his voice is lower than usual, he sounds like maybe he’s trying to be sexy. I feel like he is succeeding.

“I’ve been pretty good,” I say. Why didn’t you call? I don’t ask. Do I sound sexy?

He leans in and kisses me slowly. My lips have never felt so electrified. Not only do I feel comfortable with him, I feel safe. So we start to make out in the car, I unbuckle my seat belt and so does he. Hands are going everywhere, and this is the greatest thing in life.

I’m not really good at conversation after this kind of thing, I’ve never done this kind of thing with anyone before. I want to tell him that, but I don’t want to scare him away. I don’t want him to overthink this, I have to stop overthinking it.

“I know I’ve been a little distant lately,” he said. Thank god he brought it up.

“It’s OK,” I lied. It is so not OK.

“I meant to call you, I just, so much has been going on,” he continued. Like what? Did you break up with your girlfriend?

“I understand,” I lied again. Are you still with that girl? What is going on between us? Are we together? Are you just doing this for fun? Does this mean anything to you? All the things I didn’t say.

How do you say the things you cannot say? I looked at him and wondered when I would speak the truth to him when I would be real. I’m pretending right now, I wanted to tell him, I’m faking it. I need more from you but I don’t know how to ask.

“So what are we doing here?” I didn’t recognize myself when it came out of my mouth. I actually asked him a real question.

“What do you mean?” he said and bit his lip.

“Are we a thing, is this just casual, like what’s up?” I felt needy as I said it.

“I don’t know, why don’t we just play it by ear?” he said and I tried not to flinch. Play it by ear? What does that even mean?

“OK,” I said. I’m so submissive.

I realized in that moment that he is not going to call me for weeks again, and when he has the urge, maybe he’s bored or horny or whatever, he’ll want to meet up and I’ll be there waiting for him. Who am I? Why am I like this? Am I desperate?

I think I love him, but as I look at him in the moonlight, it occurs to me that it might not really be him that I love. It might be this like idea. The idea of Sonny is a lot better than Sonny in the flesh. I find I like him better when he’s not around. When I’m longing for him. Do I enjoy the longing more than I enjoy him?

I all of a sudden don’t feel love at all, I feel disgust. At him. At myself. He’s using me. And I know the truth, I’m going to let him. This is not the fairytale I signed up for. Is he eventually going to want to have sex? I’m not going to let him do that, but is that what he wants?

Does he even like me, or does he just need something to do? Some girl to make out with.

We don’t talk much as we head back to my dorm. He drops me off at the front door in his car, and he sort of waves at me. No goodbye kiss. No affectionate touch. All the signs are there. This is not a relationship. What is this? Am I just his hook-up girl? His plaything?

I get to my room and throw off my clothes. I feel dirty. I hop in the shower down the hall. I want to clean myself. I feel used. I am actually being used.

I knew he was out of my league, but I didn’t think he cared about that. I know he’s too cool and good looking for me. I get out of the shower and sit in my robe at my desk. I feel sick like I just want to throw up and die.

My roommate walks in and she’s drunk. I want to vomit on her. She looks like she might throw up herself. She walks kind of funny to her bed and just falls into it. I want to slap her.

I want it to be her fault that Sonny doesn’t love me.

It’s my fault, isn’t it?

Why can’t I let him go? There is something unbelievably wrong with me. I am a weak woman. I thought I was a feminist. I thought I didn’t need men. And this is how I am when it comes to a man.

I know what Sarita will say. I know what I would say to someone in my position. But the truth is, if he called me right now, I’d talk to him like nothing was wrong. But he won’t call me, will he? He doesn’t care about me, does he?

nina

If you would like to read the beginning of this novel in progress, The Patient Sikh, visit the following links in chronological order:

The Patient Sikh: Part One

The Patient Sikh: Part Two–The Wonder Years

The Patient Sikh: Part Three–Sonny

The Patient Sikh: Part Four–Song Lyrics

The Patient Sikh: Part Five–Your Song

The Patient Sikh: Part Six–Coffee Talk

The Patient Sikh: Part Seven–Chocolate Covered Love

The Patient Sikh: Part Eight–Kiss And Tell

The Patient Sikh: Part Nine–Street Chess

The Patient Sikh: Part Ten–Ravi