The Hating Game

by Sally Thorne

I spread my hand across his chest. It says, mine. The tiny jealous cavewoman in me can’t resist.

Take me in there, feed me pastry, and then drive me back to your pretty blue bedroom.”

“You’re not mad I rescued you? Boys don’t need rescuing.” “This one did.

“You told my dad it had ‘been real.’” “Like I was a bad TV scriptwriter who thought that’s how kids talk.”

I’ll always remember the drive home as a movie montage, and I knew I was in one. Each detail was vividly bright. I knew I’d need the memories one day. This montage is directed by someone French. A convertible would have been their preference, but the windows are down, so that’s something. The air is unseasonably warm and scented like honeysuckle and cut grass. The montage stars this pretty girl, Flamethrower-red mouth smiling over at a beautiful man. He’s looking so achingly cool in his sunglasses you immediately buy a pair for yourself. He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it. Tells her something charming and makes her laugh. It’s the sort of moment you want to hit pause on and buy whatever it is they’re selling. Happiness. A better life. Red lipstick and those sunglasses. The soundtrack should be a lilting indie affair; equal parts hopeful and with a broken, bittersweet lyric hook that makes your heart hurt for some unknown reason. But instead it’s scored by the 1980s hair metal I found in an incriminating iPod playlist titled Gym.

You love him. You love him. You always have. More than you’ve ever hated him. Every day, staring at this man, knowing every color and expression and nuance. Every game you’ve ever played has been to engage with him. Talk to him. Feel his eyes on you. To try to make him notice you.

“You hate me.” “I never have. Not for a second. I have always loved you.”