Word of the Day: Rancur

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rancur (n.): bitterness or ill will; hatred; malice

Nightlife is better with her. I have to admit. For one, I feel less of a creep when I people watch. It’s such a healthy hobby. It lets me know I’m actually the one who is still sane. A couple walks by with interlocked hands so tight, you would think the woman was delivering a baby or something. I’m talking about white-knuckle grip, tight. I mean why are they holding hands anyway? Hands are such troublesome things. I’ve decided that chronic hand holding is actually a disease. Mental of course. Neglect is like bacteria implanted by host’s parent(s) and developed over time until the host has full blown case of dependency syndrome.

The hands says a lot about a person. That’s why I take care of mine. I’m not taking care of them when they are being suffocated by some chick. In the case of hand holding, they become all sweaty, and clammy, and shit. I can’t be having that.

I look across the table.

Daniella knows not to try to hold my hand. She holds other things of mine. Things the public and other women can only dream of seeing. She looks up from her churro and smiles. Gorgeous thing she is. Her eyes are some shade of olive I’ve never seen before. The dress she is wearing says, “Fuck me now.” Damn cleavage is one of the most alluring I’ve seen in my life too. I pause.

Is it bad that I don’t feel guilty knowing she is just another one on my list? Just another body I’m going to smash. Again.

Another one of my victims.

I take a sip of my water. Not yet Neale. Not yet.

What I like about Daniella is that she is a bad girl. Or bad woman. Whatever the hell you wanna call them. Who knows what the hell women want to be called nowadays? Damn hypocrites.

The waiter stops at our table.

“Would you like anything else?” he asks.

“Check,” I say. Daniella purses her lips perfectly together like the drop dead, gorgeous siren she is, her eyelashes so long, they could probably touch her nose when she closes them. But the girl hardly ever blinks.

“Don’t you want dessert?” Daniella says to me. The waiter looks at me expectantly too, brows plunging into his hairline. This girl doesn’t know how to turn her freak off. I scratch my head.

“I left my sweet tooth back at the hotel baby,” I say light-heartedly.

“Room service then?”

Holy fuck. My blood starts moving a little bit faster.

The waiter clears his throat and walks away. Smart man.

Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.

I make a mental note to never be so cliché again.

“Only if it’s free,” I say.

“You’re so cheap,” she says.

“Don’t forget shallow,” I say raising a finger. She frowns.

“What are you trying to say?” Ah hell. She found me out.

“I’m not trying to say anything.” I search her eyes. I can already see she is looking too deep into what I just said. I’d be doing myself a disservice if I don’t put her in her place. So I tell her the truth. “I’m saying you were easy.”

There. I said it.

What am I saying? I’m really just that good. She wouldn’t have worn that ridiculous outfit if I hadn’t told her to wear it. I simply wanted to see what all I could make her do.

“Neale, you’re an ass. Did you know that?” I smile.

Is that what you told yourself last night when I was giving it to you?” There is real curiosity in my voice. As if I really didn’t know or something. Ha. Broads.

That’s when rancor filled her eyes.

“Neale, you’re really such a loser.” That’s right baby. Say whatever makes you feel better. “I don’t even know why I care.” You don’t. “Your sex was mediocre at best.”

“Now wait a minute!” That’s the last thing you say to my brand of man. The upper echelon.

“Take it back.” I’m pointing my finger at her and there is a bad taste in my mouth. As if her very words danced on my tongue. How dare she talks about my sex game in such layman terms.

Suddenly, the waiter is back and gives me the check.

“I hope you enjoyed your time with us,” he says and walks off.

I glance at the bill and look back at her.

“Don’t be such a hateful bitch all the time. Learn to appreciate good dick when you get it.” I look at the bill again. Any number seems like too much to be spending on her now. I should’ve never spent money on this bitch. I pay for the food and leave a decent tip.

“It’s time to get out of here before I do or say something I’m going to regret.” By the way I said it, she knows I mean business. I’m letting the temper get the best of me. Chillllll Neale.

A silent, mental woosah.

The ride back to the hotel was a little awkward. She gave me head the whole way back and told me I was the dumbest piece of shit she’d ever met. Another successful night in the world of dating I’d say.

Note to self: Never give a one night stand roll over minutes.

Word of the Day: Posh

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Posh (adj.) elegant or stylishly luxurious; in an upper-class way

I turn into the Hobbies and Crafts aisle in Barnes and Noble and see what looks to be the answer to my prayers. A Spanish goddess dressed in a black and gold long sleeve V-neck romper with posh earrings and a necklace that disappears into her cleavage is rummaging through a row of books, her long black hair cascading from her shoulders in subtle curls. My breath slackens and I have to tighten my glutes just to keep my knees from melting. It’s a collective effort because my blood has gone hot, my heart pumping it through my veins so furiously that you would think stopping would be the only thing it wanted do. Yet, I manage.

Predator to prey, I center my focus, trying to pay attention more to the spines of the books she is looking at than the lustrous curve at the bottom of her spine. I fail. I wonder if a man bought that Chanel purse on her arm… No matter. She is here now. Alone. I make my way towards her.

“They told me you would be worth the wait.” She looks over at me but doesn’t straighten her back. She can stay in that position if she wants.

“And who are they?” she asks.

“The seconds it took for me to realize today is my lucky day. Barely any.” I grin. Not the kind a mother would be proud of either. No need to show my pearly whites yet.

“Is that right? Well that means you didn’t wait very long.” She’s a smart ass. Of course she is. She reads.

“That’s what you’re supposed to do when you see something you want,” I say. Ahhhh, now she straightens her back. Seems like I’ve finally gotten her attention. She is tall, even without her black suede boots and her honey-brown eyes assess me further, matching the words to the face, the black v-neck and jeans, the posture. Looking to see if everything adds up. I will myself to still, my breath coming and going silently like a cool breeze on a lonely beach with black sands.

“Didn’t your mother tell you you can’t always have what you want?” she says, a coy smile flattening her lips. I find a way to stand straighter.

“While mothers do say such things, they also say once you find a good woman to never let her go.” Her brows arched then, her mouth making a small “o.” My mind begins to revel in debaucheries.

“What makes you think I’m good?” Her hands find her hips and her eyes narrow. What they’re looking for, I’m not quite sure. You’re in the Hobbies and Crafts section for goodness sake. What else am I supposed to think?

“A woman in a bookstore is a fortune money can’t buy.” I just hit a nerve. It’s written all over her body. And her vibe. She is mine.

“And who said that?” she says with a smile that stirs my pride and joy. I show my teeth, my smile crooked as lightning.

“Me,” I say.