Tré Calling, chapter 4
I was in a hall. Slow dancing. With Tré Cool. Things didn't get much more surreal than this.
"So," Tré started. "How long have you been a fan than?"
"Well, probably since the beginning, really."
"Wait, but that's not possible! You can't be a day over sixteen!"
"Ha ha ha," I replied sarcastically. "You're hilarious."
"No, just kidding. How old are you really?"
"How old do you think I am?" I asked, testing him.
"Oh, God. I know the rule. Always say a woman looks eighteen."
I laughed in reply. "Well then, it may surprise you to learn that I'm twenty seven."
"Well, I'm thirty three. Not bad, eh?"
"Really? I joked. "I assumed you were fourteen."
"That would make you a child molester then, wouldn't it?" he said, putting his chin on my shoulder.
I giggled. It must have looked funny, us dancing, because I was very, very short. Tré had to lean down quite a way to rest his head.
After a little light conversation, and a few more slow dances, I decided we should probably go home.
"Your place or mine?" Tré asked, cheekily.
"Both. I'll go to mine, and you can go to yours," I said in reply, cuffing his cheek lightly to show that it was a joke.
"Ouch. Bitchy!" Tré said, laughing.
Tré dropped me off home after the dancing, and we stood out underneath the stars while I thanked him for a great night out. I smiled and looked at his eyes. They were a gorgeous ice blue, and in the light (or lack of it) they really stood out. I continued to stare at him, and in return, Tré pulled me into a big bear hug.
"Our date was great," Tré whispered into my ear.
"Was. Not. A. Date," I replied, poking him with every word of my sentence.
"Was too!" he insisted.
"Tré. We danced. That's it," I said, pulling away.
"Fine," Tré said. "But, would you like to go out on a date again sometime?"
"Yes, I would love to meet you again. But not for a date."
"Why not?" Tré whined.
I sighed and walked up to my apartment door. "Bye!" I said, waving my hand.
"Bye," Tré replied, grinning. Then, he turned and took the stairs out of the block.
Trying hard to preserve every memory of the night, I changed into pyjamas and drifted off to sleep.
"Get the hell off me!" I screamed, tugging at my arm.
He had a tight grip on my arm. His nails were digging in, which created a burning sensation in the skin. And he wasn't letting go.
"Please," I sobbed through my tears, turning my head away and trying to wipe the mascara streams out of my face with my spare arm.
He still wasn't letting go. I hid my face in my arm, and gave up on trying to pull away.
I woke up in a cold sweat and wiped my forehead, trying to calm my anxiety stricken heart. I breathed in and out heavily, trying to get oxygen into my blood stream. My limbs had gone weak, as memories flooded over me, and I laid back down in my bed, and looked up at the ceiling.
It was now 3.00am in the morning and as such, I hadn't been able to get back to sleep. I rubbed my eyes and fumbled to put a pair of slippers on my feet. This insomnia had occurred before, and I had found that there was only one way to beat it: Cold, hard booze. I slowly made my way to my kitchen and pulled a bottle of wine out of the rack. Clumsily, I pulled the cork out of the top and drank straight from the bottle until I finally managed to sleep.
The next morning, my head was banging like a drum. It was killing me, so I took a couple of painkillers out of my cupboard and gulped them down. I grinned. This was getting to be too common an occurrence. I was going to need more painkillers at this rate.
I considered it for a second, and then decided that I really couldn't be bothered to go to work. Wearily, I phoned my office and coughed down the phone (in what I considered a good impression of someone with whooping cough) that I was really sick and couldn't get into work.
It was about 11.00am in the morning, and I was already fed up with watching daytime television. Suddenly, my phone started to ring, and I jumped at the chance to pick it up.
"You doing anything today?"
"No, Tré. I'm pretending to be sick," I mumbled down the phone.
"Was that sarcasm I detected?"
"It really wasn't."
"Okay then, would you like to go to lunch with me?"
"Aren't you supposed to be a big rock star with no time on your hands?"
"What can I say? I'm bored."
"Okay then Tré. Fine. I'll go to lunch with you."
I heard a loud whoop of joy down the end of the phone that caused me to draw the phone away from my ear.
"I'll pick you up in an hour?"
"Yep. See you then!" I said, grinning. His cheery voice made me smile involuntarily.
I kept smiling to myself until I got a glance in the mirror. Good God. It looked liked I hadn't brushed my hair in days, there was yesterday's mascara smudged around my eyes and I appeared to have crumbs of toast lurking on my t-shirt. I looked at my clock. Fifty seven minutes until he arrived. Time to play some serious dress up.
"So," Tré started. "How long have you been a fan than?"
"Well, probably since the beginning, really."
"Wait, but that's not possible! You can't be a day over sixteen!"
"Ha ha ha," I replied sarcastically. "You're hilarious."
"No, just kidding. How old are you really?"
"How old do you think I am?" I asked, testing him.
"Oh, God. I know the rule. Always say a woman looks eighteen."
I laughed in reply. "Well then, it may surprise you to learn that I'm twenty seven."
"Well, I'm thirty three. Not bad, eh?"
"Really? I joked. "I assumed you were fourteen."
"That would make you a child molester then, wouldn't it?" he said, putting his chin on my shoulder.
I giggled. It must have looked funny, us dancing, because I was very, very short. Tré had to lean down quite a way to rest his head.
After a little light conversation, and a few more slow dances, I decided we should probably go home.
"Your place or mine?" Tré asked, cheekily.
"Both. I'll go to mine, and you can go to yours," I said in reply, cuffing his cheek lightly to show that it was a joke.
"Ouch. Bitchy!" Tré said, laughing.
Tré dropped me off home after the dancing, and we stood out underneath the stars while I thanked him for a great night out. I smiled and looked at his eyes. They were a gorgeous ice blue, and in the light (or lack of it) they really stood out. I continued to stare at him, and in return, Tré pulled me into a big bear hug.
"Our date was great," Tré whispered into my ear.
"Was. Not. A. Date," I replied, poking him with every word of my sentence.
"Was too!" he insisted.
"Tré. We danced. That's it," I said, pulling away.
"Fine," Tré said. "But, would you like to go out on a date again sometime?"
"Yes, I would love to meet you again. But not for a date."
"Why not?" Tré whined.
I sighed and walked up to my apartment door. "Bye!" I said, waving my hand.
"Bye," Tré replied, grinning. Then, he turned and took the stairs out of the block.
Trying hard to preserve every memory of the night, I changed into pyjamas and drifted off to sleep.
"Get the hell off me!" I screamed, tugging at my arm.
He had a tight grip on my arm. His nails were digging in, which created a burning sensation in the skin. And he wasn't letting go.
"Please," I sobbed through my tears, turning my head away and trying to wipe the mascara streams out of my face with my spare arm.
He still wasn't letting go. I hid my face in my arm, and gave up on trying to pull away.
I woke up in a cold sweat and wiped my forehead, trying to calm my anxiety stricken heart. I breathed in and out heavily, trying to get oxygen into my blood stream. My limbs had gone weak, as memories flooded over me, and I laid back down in my bed, and looked up at the ceiling.
It was now 3.00am in the morning and as such, I hadn't been able to get back to sleep. I rubbed my eyes and fumbled to put a pair of slippers on my feet. This insomnia had occurred before, and I had found that there was only one way to beat it: Cold, hard booze. I slowly made my way to my kitchen and pulled a bottle of wine out of the rack. Clumsily, I pulled the cork out of the top and drank straight from the bottle until I finally managed to sleep.
The next morning, my head was banging like a drum. It was killing me, so I took a couple of painkillers out of my cupboard and gulped them down. I grinned. This was getting to be too common an occurrence. I was going to need more painkillers at this rate.
I considered it for a second, and then decided that I really couldn't be bothered to go to work. Wearily, I phoned my office and coughed down the phone (in what I considered a good impression of someone with whooping cough) that I was really sick and couldn't get into work.
It was about 11.00am in the morning, and I was already fed up with watching daytime television. Suddenly, my phone started to ring, and I jumped at the chance to pick it up.
"You doing anything today?"
"No, Tré. I'm pretending to be sick," I mumbled down the phone.
"Was that sarcasm I detected?"
"It really wasn't."
"Okay then, would you like to go to lunch with me?"
"Aren't you supposed to be a big rock star with no time on your hands?"
"What can I say? I'm bored."
"Okay then Tré. Fine. I'll go to lunch with you."
I heard a loud whoop of joy down the end of the phone that caused me to draw the phone away from my ear.
"I'll pick you up in an hour?"
"Yep. See you then!" I said, grinning. His cheery voice made me smile involuntarily.
I kept smiling to myself until I got a glance in the mirror. Good God. It looked liked I hadn't brushed my hair in days, there was yesterday's mascara smudged around my eyes and I appeared to have crumbs of toast lurking on my t-shirt. I looked at my clock. Fifty seven minutes until he arrived. Time to play some serious dress up.
