Flytrap

Chapter Five

"I'm glad you decided to come with me to the store. Usually I walk on my own with my music, but that doesn't equal the same value as talking to someone." I was genuine. I decided at the bookstore to be 100% me. To be honest, it felt great. 

"I didn't have anything to do if you couldn't tell. And a girl doesn't get dressed in these cloths to lounge around in, they're for showing off," she replied. She sneaks me a sideways glance, "don't you think?" 

"I agree. If they're on the right person," I start. I put my hands in my pockets, leaving it at that for a second to tease her. She stops walking and crosses her arms, waiting. I stop walking after a few steps and turn back to look at her with a side smile, "good thing you're the right person." I even offer a wink her way.

She smiles at that. Her nose crinkles in the cutest way when she does. Her features slightly resembled that of a green eyed Zooey Deschanel without the bangs. Her nose was thin and upturned; her lips a happy medium plump that was fittingly colored in with a nude shade. 

"You just like to flatter me," she says back, "but good thing for you, I like it."

I like you

The thought train gets disrupted when my stomach lets out a gurgle, and I decide to take that as an opportunity to change the subject matter before I say some dumb shit out loud and ruin the vibe we have. 

"I was gonna eat at Tony's," I groan, "but I forgot.." 

"You saw me," she offers. I look at her, surprised. Maybe she's a little more intuitive than I have been subconsciously giving her credit for. Bianca sees the look of surprise on my face and immediately rolls her eyes, "if there's any energy I can read like a class A expert, it's attraction," she begins, "and this isn't to sound conceded, but I've come to find that- apparently- I'm fucking irresistible." She spits out the last words with a not so subtle tone of disgust. 

A silence settles in, leaving me wonder how this lighthearted walk has become so serious. I open my mouth to ask her if she is okay, but she has already started to talk again, "my dad used to keep flytraps around the house when I was young." She was so somber, "we didn't have it good back then. The house always stunk. And was infested with flies... they slowly dwindled down with time, but..."

She's trailing off, her voice getting softer, lower, and more distant as her mind is thrown back into that time of her life. I study her features while she continues, "I always used to watch the flies land on it. One after the other- disregarding the previous flies that met their fate, they just kept landing on it." Bianca looks at me her eyes furrowed, "why was it so fucking irresistible?"

I catch on to the fact that she is comparing herself to a flytrap. A warmth settles inside of my chest with the realization that this is her beginning to open up to me. But I also felt pain- deeper than the warmth- because something about that metaphor was so significant to her that it drained her within the small amount of time it took her to reminisce. If I gave her a marshmallow, I don't believe she could hold onto it right now. Something about her past made her believe she was nothing but a trap... she must have had a rough relationship.

She wipes her eyes with her right arm. The motion veers my eyes back to the mark on her neck that I noticed the first time I saw her. From far away, I had dismissed it as a possible birthmark. From a foot away, there was no mistaking it.

That's a cigarette burn.

I look away from it for fear of her catching my sight lingering on it for too long. I saw what I saw, and I wonder who did that to her. I wonder why they did it. Re-capturing her previous words, I  try to piece together the fact that Bianca believes she's something that does nothing but lures people into their deaths. This could be a metaphor indicating that she felt like she wasn't good enough. That people who take the time to dedicate themselves to her may suffer some slow emotional or mental deterioration. 

Or, to be more accurate, they made her feel that way. They made her feel so low of herself and the way she was, that in turn, she was made out in her own mind to be not good enough. And no woman should ever feel that way.

I make the decision to put off my inquiries for a later date. In the same moment, I feel like enough time has passed that I offer some sort of condolence. I don't know Bianca very well yet. But I have spent enough time with her so far that I just felt like milking her sorrow wasn't the best way to go. She needed to be accepted. But she needed to be lifted at the same time. So, naturally, I crack a dumb joke. 

"Are you trying to call me a fly?"

It was, to me, a good way to show that I understand the analogy but am also able to handle it by helping her feel like she isn't overwhelming me. I want her to know she can confide in me without worrying that she's too much or that she's putting too much on my plate. I am starting to feel like that's something this woman really needs. A person. Her person. 

And it works. She smiles through her tears, wiping the final ones away with a few last minute wipes. I can tell from her fidgets that she's uncomfortable with the fact that she cried in front of me, practically a stranger. She doesn't really hit you as the type of person who would normally let herself.

I add to my previous statement, "I can't imagine being stuck with you for the rest of a lifetime could be too horrid though. I'm just saying."

"You don't know enough about me to come to that conclusion just yet," she retorts. I take it as a challenge and shrug in response. Getting to know her didn't seem like too much of a chore. Everybody has luggage. Everybody has insecurities. Everybody has flaws. It's what makes us all our own unique flavor of perfect.

"Well let's change that then," I challenge, "how about we go out to eat before going shopping?"

"Sure," she agrees. I get another flutter in my chest. I'm actually excited.

"Awesome! Where do you want to go?" I ask.

"I don't care."

I face palm myself.Typical.

She's been to the Barista. But there are more options in this town. Going to the same place over and over may be boring and overkill. Plus, it was my second home. For a date, I would want it to be someplace different. I look her over and wonder what her favorite food might be. There's not really a way to guess with how little I know. But I take a wild swing in the dark.

"We'll just start at Moonlight Pasta. You like Italian, right?"

Her face lights up, "I love Italian!"

One point for Grace, woo.