ArchivedLogs:I Give Up
| I Give Up | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2013-05-05 It was pretty much inevitable. |
| Location | |
KNOCKKNOCK. Two hard raps from the back of the knuckles. This is what Melinda GETS. Melinda happens to be home! This is amazing! There are some interior noises before someone comes and unlocks the door, opening it to see Jim standing there. It is actually Melinda. She stand there, a little blank faced for a moment, decked out in a pair of jeans and a comfy short sleeved cotton shirt. It's blue with daisy prints all over it, because SPRING. The windows are open in her apartment and the breeze is wonderful. She looks at him for a moment, the blankness continuing, then a few twitches of emotion surface, first a small smile, then something more depressed in her eyes. She draws in a deep breath and steps back, opening the door further. "Hey, Jim. Come on in." Oh, crap. Jim looks into Melinda's ensaddened eyes like he's seen the promised land and is deciding instead he should maybe go HOME. He's keeping it all together mostly through the pure eclipsing existential skepticism that makes him successful at his job and /bad/ at the rest of his life. "Yo," he literally jerks his chin while saying this. "How's tricks?" He wanders in with a kind of lurky-skulking gait. His spring attire has jumped the tracks and gone straight beach bum. Short-sleeved loose unbuttoned button-up, blue and yellow striped, over a sleeveless white undershirt. Cargo shorts, flip-flops - they called these /thongs/ back in his day. The longer Jim is there, the more relaxed Melinda becomes. The effects are almost immediate. When he doesn't open his mouth to berate her, she closes the door behind them and locks it behind them. She follows him into the room, arms crossing under her chest, her shoulders hunched. "Oh, you know. Living it up in style now, totally the head manager at the cafe." She gives a small shrug and moves toward the couch to sit down. "You keeping busy?" "Babe, you know it." Jim, following, on impulse brings up a hand to /smack/ Melinda on the ass, "/Manager/. Not bad." When her ass is smacked, Melinda stumbles forward a step. She turns on him and turns quickly, and while her eyes are narrowed in a manner that might indicate some sort of burning retort is forming in her mind, there's a conflict with the growing smile on her lips. A chuckle rumbles in her chest and throat and she just shakes her head, closing her eyes and laughing wearily. "Thank you." She slides a little closer and greets him with a kiss. "Fucking long week made me forget I had good shit going on," she mutters under her breath as she takes a step back to look him over. "Nice look." "Dressed myself and everything," Jim, as is the way of assholes, pulls back his head a micro-inch when Melinda leans in to kiss him, just to be a DICK, -- then leans down to plant one on her. "Y'kissed a friend of mine." He knows just what to say! And then wanders deeper into the apartment. Hi, this is his territory now. "Yeah, that turned out great," Melinda doesn't bother hiding the sarcasm laced over the top of that. She inhales deeply and stuffs her hands in her pockets, following him in. "Look, I was going to tell you about it, as it just kind of happened, and then the party happened and I fucked it all up - and I was waiting for the dust to settle a little." She pauses in her steps to see where Jim is going, leaning against the back of the couch. "I am sorry about that. Really could have handled it better." "Agh, aren't you like," Jim /petrifies/ with his hands all held up and clawed - but only in the process of going stiff-backed and toppling backwards with gritted teeth into the couch seat, "-/from/ this generation? A text takes /literally/ point-five-seconds." He is chewing inwardly on something, but only his own compulsively OCD need to be periodically accurate, because he shoots out as though Melinda has /said/ something, "-FINE, alright, five minutes. Whatever." Slap-clap; his hands clamp down on his forehead and drag downward, pulling his lower eyelids away from the spheres of his eyeballs. /Monsterface/. "Look," he says slightly less disgruntled, "You don't gotta tell me every time you kiss a guy. I don't even /wanna/ know. But if you're gonna kiss," don't say 'my guy', don't say 'my guy', don't say 'my guy', "my guy? - agh, that came out wrong, whatever. One of my guys. My friends? Just - c'mon." Jim: Mr. Eloquent on the topics of relationships. "I don't know if I should be sorry I wanted to do that face to face, or not." Melinda looks a little confused, scowling down at the floor before moving around the couch to sit down as well. "But fine. Text message it is. 'Oh, by the way, was at one of our friends' place. We kind of made out. Bring milk next time you come over.'" Melinda moves around the couch to sit on the couch, resting her elbows on her knees, her stiffness returning, making no real effort to look at or touch Jim. "I am sorry." "Except for the milk part, you make it sound like we're married." Except for the part about kissing someone's friends. Jim watches Melinda slouch up, and it earns an 'arrrgh', reaching over and shoving her to mess up that defeated posture, "Yeah, I kinda got that. Now knock it off." "What? Having the same friends doesn't make us married." Melinda wobbles like jello when shoved, her posture not changing much as she settles back into place, her head turning to look Jim over. "At this point, you rank as an inconsistent booty call - with touchy issues about your friends." There, they are his now. She looks at him hard. "Tell me honestly..." Dun dun duuuuuun. "Is it me? Is there something on my face that says 'idealistic romantic, just looking to get married to the first guy that shoves it in consistently?'" "Well, not your face-..." Long pause. Jim has a /fixed stare/, because yep. He said that out loud. One of Melinda's eyebrows arch upward on her forehead. "Seriously?" She shakes her head and turns her head forward once more, rubbing at her eyes. "I give up." Jim taps his thumb rapidly on his knee. STARING straight ahead like he's got a really bad itch right between his shoulders and is trying to will it away with his mind powers. "/Okay/." He has made the decision - to rise! "Y'know what? Me too." He marches for the door. "It was fun, sweetheart." "What?" Melinda rises quickly and follows after him, "Why does me resigning myself to the fact that I'm going to get ridiculous marriage comments for the rest of my life drive you off? What the hell, Jim. I can't move around the apartment doing stuff while you're here. I can't sit quietly on the couch now either. Are you mad that I called you a booty call? I'm sorry. Hive made it clear how royally I fucked up at that party and I'm trying not to show how hurt I am to you, because you know what? You don't deserve it. But please, do me a favor and don't storm out of here? Please?" "Aaagh," with fists thrown up, for a few steps, when Melinda gets up to follow, Jim is /actually fleeing/, like some inverted canine response at seeing something running away; he makes with a very rapid /skulk/-shuffle, only squashing his instinct once he's nearer the door. Then he wheels on his heels, hands held up, "Woman!" Don't hit! "Stop! What the fuck, seriously. You can't sit quietly --, you can't -- do shit--," he is going into full theatrical arm-sweep mode, "So let's stop /doing/ this. This is not suppose to be hard! I don't give a shit about Hive or what he made clear to you. Mel. Mel, listen." Clap! He seizes onto either of her shoulders, "This ain't workin', babe. You're a bundle of nerves and by baby Jesus Christ I'm about to throw myself out a window. Date boys. Date /girls/ for all I care. But whatever you need, lady, it ain't /me/." "Okay." Breeeathe. BREATHE, Mel. She takes a couple deep breaths, blinking far more than is necessary. "I... um. Okay." She takes a step back as her forehead bunches up, looking down and away at last. "Okay." She swallows hard and backs away again. "Just- seriously." Jim is saying, lamely, as Melinda turns away, "I'm old enough to be your /dad/. This -..." He finishes his sentence by dropping his hands and turning back to his conveniently located escape hatch. This is not, in fact, a window he has to cast himself through, and the doorknob is palmed open heavily. And dragged closed behind him as he completes his evacuation procedure. Like a pro. "God dammit." Melinda walks over to the door after Jim leaves, but does not open it after him. Instead she locks it behind him, turns away, and goes to her bedroom for the rest of the day. With a tub of ice cream? That would require /having/ a tub of ice cream. Melinda cries tears into her pillow because she was woefully unprepared to be dumped today. Bad girlscout.
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