Page 146 of Dating Goals
I scramble upright. “Touch the control and I will ban you from S’Holzfass for eternity.”
“We’re your only customers right now,” Lars points out. “And we’ve endured sixty-seven plays of this misery anthem.”
“Would you prefer I put The Hurting album on again instead?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
“NO!” all three men shout in unison.
Colin clasps his hands together in prayer. “We beg of you, no more Tears for Fears.”
“I feel like it is raining inside S’Holzfass,” Lars adds.
I slump in my chair. “Good. The outside should match my inside.”
“Why don’t you try something more upbeat?” Evan suggests gently. “Like ABBA?”
“ABBA?” I sputter, sitting upright now. “Do I look like I’m in an ABBA mood?”
The three men study me from across the room, taking in the dark circles under my eyes.
“Are you going emo?” Lars asks, squinting at my black sweater, which matches my black jeans and black boots.
“Perhaps.” I run my fingers along one of my braids. “I’m considering coloring my hair black. To match my soul.”
“Oh good Lord,” Colin mutters.
“I could channel my inner Wednesday Addams,” I continue.
“Wednesday who?” Evan asks.
“She’s my role model,” I say without a trace of irony. “Emotionally unavailable and dead inside.”
Their faces transform into masks of horror.
The Smiths song finally ends, but I’ve set it on repeat, so Morrissey starts crooning about misery again. Lars throws a coaster at the speaker, missing by a mile.
I plop my forehead back onto the table with unnecessary force.
“Ow,” I mutter.
“Anika,” Colin says, walking over to my table. “This has gone on long enough.”
I flop my head to the side and press my cheek against the wood. The grain pattern makes these little swirly designs if you stare long enough. It’s mesmerizing in a sad, pathetic way.
“I told him I love him,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Like an idiot. And he didn’t say it back. He said NOTHING.”
Colin sits down across from me, folding his hands like he’s about to deliver a sermon. “Men are stupid.”
“The stupidest,” Lars says with authority. “We don’t process emotions in real time.”
“Griffin’s probably kicking himself for not saying it back,” Evan adds.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s back in Toronto now. The lockout is over. He’s returned to his glamorous hockey life with his glamorous hockey friends.”
“Anika,” Lars says firmly. “Griffin is coming back, ja?”
I lift my head, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “It’s been almost a month. He said he’d be gone for a week, maybe two.”
I stare into the distance. “It’s a very, very mad world.” Then I plop my head back down with a theatrical thump.
