Alprazolam: The Human Connection

Sometimes I wonder if there’s more to me than flesh and blood.

…

I couldn’t help but follow her. I mean, I’m sure I could, but historically I’ve never been a master of self-control. She caught my eye coming out of a cafe, her soft love handles illuminated in the mid-afternoon sun, clashing with the dark grey of her t-shirt that was slowly inching its way upward. And in that moment I wanted my hand to be inching upward over her round middle, not her shirt. She glances in my direction and I dart into a shop. Sweat beads down my neck. Jesus Christ, please don’t let her have seen me. I peek out the shop window and see her stood in all her glory drinking a coffee. I hate the cooperate consumerism bullshit of Starbucks, but sometimes I have to admit they have a few neato things on their menus. When I’m in a binge mood, I get a pizza pretzel. It’s probably a good thing they’re kind of expensive and I’m broke or I’d be addicted to those things. Being broke is probably why I don't have a drug addiction; I'd never be able to afford one. 

…

Why is it that I sometimes have the hardest time explaining to myself why I do the things that I do? Am I broken? Am I missing parts? Or is a switch just not flipped on somewhere inside me? Maybe there’s a lack of blood flow to the cognitive centre of my brain. I lean back onto the wet grass and watch the early April clouds float above me. It must be nice to be so free. Of course, they don’t know that they’re free. Maybe that’s the way that things outta be.

…

Are things really as complicated as they appear? I wonder if my attraction to bus girl is nothing more than a biological imperative. What if I only want to have sex with her because of her physical attributes? What if I’m only wanting to have sex with her because the animal in me knows that if our genes got together and played house it would be a good thing for the species? Goddamn it. 

…

Maybe I’m just not wired to have friends. The inner workings of human relationships confuse me and often leave me feeling unsatisfied. I’m not equipped to handle shit like this. I see people laughing and sharing things on the street, being close and comfortable with one another and it’s like watching a scene in a science fiction film. I’ve never had that. Why haven’t I had that? Will I ever have that? Do I even want that? What will change if I have that? Will I find some deep connection to those around me? Will I want to pursue connections? But then again, it sometimes is rewarding to be on the outside. You see so many interesting things. Back a few years ago, when I was 17, one of my classmates, he hung himself with a volleyball net in the school’s athletic centre-I can’t fucking believe that’s what they’re calling them now. It’s a gym. I guess I’ll have to agree to disagree. Anyway, the entire school mourned him. I didn’t understand then and I don’t understand now. I think it’s disgusting how people act after a death. All this phoney out pours of sympathy and how they twist the death to feed their own psychological needs and deny their past actions. Being a quite fellow also has its advantages.  You won't find me playing a Maryl Streep role in a volleyball drama. 

...

She's here and she's wearing tight jeans. I don't know how I'll be able to focus. My palms start to sweat and I can't focus on the sandwich I'm supposed to be making. She swishes her hair as she leans down to get a drink out of the cooler and I nearly turn into a puddle on the floor. Please don't let her notice me. I've never wanted to disappear more than in this moment. Damn those jeans are so tight. If they get any tighter I'd be able to-oh, my god, she's not wearing knickers. I slice my hand with the breadknife and mutter under my breath in frustration and embarrassment. How is a person doing this to me? Did I hit my head and not remember it? I don't remember anyone ever turning me into a drooling moron. This is just beyond the pale, but she's so perfect. 

I wash my hand and put a plaster over the cut the best I can before putting on a fresh set of gloves. I look up to see a set of brilliant brown eyes and slightly freckled chubby cheeks staring at me. I've never really seen her straight on and she's even prettier. All the blood drains from my brain.  "Are you on break or can you help me?" I'd help you...help you out of those tight jeans and into my bed. Focus Alex. "Hi...Hi, yes I can help you." "Great, I'd like a double turkey on Italian cheese bread with extra pickles and cheddar. Can you toast that? And I'd like a meatball with extra sauce and extra cheese on the Italian Herb bread...let's see...um, an order of chips and some of your famous cheesecake! Do you guys make that here?" "I make a lot of stuff here." She giggles and presses her soft middle into the counter. "I'll get on that." I shuffle to the side and concentrate; I don't need to be slicing my hand open again. I take my time, but I'm careful to not move slow enough to piss her off. I wrap the sandwiches carefully and put them into a bag as well as an extra cookie. I ring her order up. She hands me a £20 note and tells me to keep the change, winking at me as she leaves with her order. If I had a soul, I'm pretty sure it would have left with her, tucked in between layers of meat, cheese and bread.

...
I lay awake in my small single bed, staring at the glowy stars once again, mulling over the few encounters she and I have had over the week. I can't stop thinking about her and I don't even know her name. Maybe it's best that I don't know her name.  I need to go on a holiday. I need to get her out of my head. I can't allow this to go on. It's driving me even more mental than I generally am. I actually feel my pulse thundering through me as I lay here in the dark. This isn't good for any sort of cardiovascular health surely.