Page 9 of Dirty Daria
I finish wrapping my hands, flexing my fingers to ensure a tight fit, then head over to my preferred speed bag. My sneakers squeak on the freshly mopped linoleum floor. My fist raised and at the ready as I reach the bag, starting with a slow and steady rhythm.
Right. Left.
Right. Left.
Right. Left
And when I need a bit more I work up to:
Right. Right. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Left. Left.
And finally:
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Which is my preferred rhythm—the sounds of the bag rapidly hitting the board, my fist, the board, and my fist acting as a meditative mantra for my movements. Because what I need more than anything after time with Daria is a physical release and mental meditation. It’s exhausting spending time with someone you can’t have but still want. She’s all I think about. I’m borderline obsessed. Fuck, maybe it’s not borderline and I’m just obsessed. I watch her house by night, keep her at the forefront of my mind by day.
Why can’t I just find a normal girl to fall in love with? Someone who’s not a killer. A girl who will stay at home, raise my babies, have dinner waiting for me at six o’clock, and be content with that. Not that I’m against female empowerment and equality. I’m all for it. But I’m also all for having a woman take care of me.
Sexist?
Probably. Not gonna apologize for it though.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
I push through at the same pace for over half an hour before stopping. My arms aching between the rigorous workout I’ve just given them and the cramped muscles from having spent the night sitting up in my car. I move through the rest of my workout, ignoring the other guys who come in. Most are disgruntled single guys like me anyway.
Later today, I’ll hit my sister’s house for Christmas dinner and to bring my twin nieces their gifts. My sister is that girl I’m looking for. She stays at home and cares for the twins while her husband works, she cleans the house, cooks the food, keeps a smile on her face, and, if you ask, she’ll tell you she’s satisfied and fulfilled. Her husband is a college professor though, so his hours are regular and he takes summers off. He’s never sent to parts unknown with a moment’s notice and never gets beaten up or shot at. But he can’t bench three hundred and fifty pounds either, so there’s that.
Ninety minutes later, I’m spent. I’ve done all that I can do for today. The jog home will be grueling, but once there I can shower and take a nap. Sleeping never feels as good as after I’ve been awake thirty-six hours and pushed my body to the brink for the final two of those. I grab my shit from my locker, glancing at my phone as I pocket it. I have a message from Reed but decide not to check it until I get home.
We committed to taking today off, regardless. And I don’t have the energy to listen to him whine about how his best friend is a douche bag of the worst kind. So, unless he’s calling about a new case, which I would have also heard about, I don’t want to deal right now.
We’re partners, Reed and I. I trust him with my life, respect the hell out of him, but I don’t always want to be his friend. It blurs the lines too much between work and personal. Except for everything involving Daria, I don’t like blurred lines in relationships. Fine with them with her, just not anywhere else. What’s that saying? It’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. That’s me to a T.
It isn’t until I’m back home, showered, and in bed with my eyes closing that I remember two things.
One, I didn’t check the message from Reed.
Two, I didn’t wish Daria a Merry Christmas.
5
Daria
I’ve barely fallen asleep when my ringing phone wakes me up again. Somehow, it’s light outside, which is hard to comprehend. But when I glance at the time, I see six hours have passed. Which is also hard to comprehend. I flip on the light and grab my phone.
