She's a Woman

Chapter Fourteen: Not a Word Was Spoken

I seized a handful of paper towels, ran them under the tap and scrubbed furiously at my jeans. The beer wasn't going to leave a huge mark but I was sure it would tarnish the fabric. Paul lurked a few few behind me. I could feel his cold stare resting on me. It sent chills up my spine, setting the hair on my neck straight up on end.

"Hey Mikey," Paul said suddenly, sauntering up beside me.

"Don't call me Mikey," I muttered. "It's Michael, thanks very much."

"All right, Mr Picky!" Paul paused for a moment to peer at himself in the dingy mirror. He whipped a small plastic comb out of his jacket pocket and quickly ran it through his immensely greasy hair.

"How can you smear oven cleaner in your hair like that?" I asked contemptuously. "It's disgusting."

"It's actually quite modern," Paul snapped. He eyed my long, wavy hair. I hadn't had time to cut it recently so it had grown way past my ears, assembled in loose waves. "If anyone's hair is disgusting, then it's yours!"

"Why?" I asked.

"It makes you look like a girl!" Paul sneered.

My blood turned to ice. I tried to convince myself that Paul was just being mean; there was no way he could tell that I actually was a girl, but I didn't dare answer him. I tilted my head and pretended to be deeply absorbed in washing the last splatters of beer off of my trousers. It was just a ploy so I wouldn't have to look at him.

Paul tugged at strand of my hair. "It's a disgrace, it really is."

I mumbled something indistinctly, splashing more water on my jeans.

"Maybe you should consider getting it cut," said Paul.

"No thanks," I replied, pulling away from him. "I like my hair the way it is, so please stop messing with it or I'll whack you right across that big head of yours."

"All right, don't get your knickers in a twist."

I pulled a grotesque face then went back to dabbing at my jeans. I'd managed to sponge away most of the beer, but now there was a huge wet patch near my crotch.

"It looks like you've wet yourself," Paul jeered.

"Why do you always get at me, Paul?" I asked wearily. "Do you get a real kick out of saying hurtful things? If so, then you're a really sad person."

Paul's thin, arched eyebrows knitted together. "I'm not a sad person, and I only get at you because you're a little prick."

I knew this was just an attempt to wind me up, and it was working. I crumpled up my handful of paper towels and slammed it down hard on the bathroom counter. I slammed a little too efficiently and hit my wrist hard in the process. Tears sprang to my eyes but I was determined not to cry in front of him.

"Paul, tell me this," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "What did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much? I've never done anything bad to you, yet you act like a total bastard towards me."

Paul blinked in astonishment. "Do I need a reason to hate someone?"

"Yes! That's basically how hate work, you twat!"

"Fine." Paul was acting awfully calm despite just being called a twat. "If you must know, it's because you're a little cock-sucking whore who's trying to get with John."

I felt my cheeks flush bright red. "I'm not!" I cried childishly.

"Yes, you are! It's obvious that you have a massive crush on him!"

"But I don't! What ever planted that idea in your head?"

Paul's hands clenched into fists of rage. There was a savage look in his eyes, as if he wanted to kill me there and then. "I saw you and John," he whispered. "I saw you with my own eyes."