That Was One Hell of a Fragfest, Don Juan

Day 48

Thutta-thutta-thutta-thatta-thut. I released my mouse and slapped a triumphant palm over a closed fist. I’d just wasted the last guy in the round and made it to the game-winning 25 kills. I made an imaginary pistol with my index finger, drew it to my mouth, and blew away a cloud of imaginary gunsmoke. It was cheesy as hell, but I didn’t care.

I pulled off my headphones, leaned back in my faux leather chair, and exhaled with a sharp woosh, as though I’d just run a 5k.

“That was a hell of a round,” I said aloud, incredulously.

I was proud. Damn proud. I glanced at my oversized monitor just in time to see my name at the top of the frag list before it flicked away to the loading screen. I logged out of the server before the next game started. I wanted to end on a good note, and there was no way in hell I was beating that performance.

“Welp, I should probably just throw in the towel and never play again. That was f*cking epic.”

I liked talking to myself. Apparently, this natural desire was aroused even further when I lacked an audience for my digital exploits. My brain was buzzing, and my nerves were still crackling with ebbing adrenaline. I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, even though it must be past midnight.

The sounds of the outside world gradually elbowed in on my consciousness. I was happy to hear that my neighbors were still very much awake: the walls vibrated with the specific frequency of a bass track I couldn’t quite place, and from a nearby room, the careless laughter of masculine youth competed with the regular clack of plastic on plastic.

I weighed my options. I was well liked on my floor, so I could probably wander into any room and start partying. I was intrigued by the competitive nature of a drinking game. My nerves, still singing from my recent triumph, made their preference known.

I was dead sober, but I wasn’t sure video gaming translated into actual, physical athleticism — such as it was in a game like beer pong. That, and being sober was actually a handicap in that game. I’d seen and experienced it many times before.

The next room erupted with groans and cheers; someone had no doubt just made an incredible shot. The raucous excitement of my neighbors was suddenly obnoxious. I wanted to be social, but also alone.

A tingling in my stomach, and then: I could go to her.

Except the thought came to me more like a question: I could…go to her?

My palms moistened. Was she even awake? Would she want to see me? Of course she is and We almost kissed last time were the immediate answers of my swampy inner monologue.

The chair squeaked as I leaned back. I rocked back and forth on my toes, feeling my calves flex and release. I drummed my fingers on the plastic arms, not really thinking about anything at all for a moment. I knew instantly that I wanted to go to her, but my rational thoughts kept me glued to my seat.

“The heart tells you right away…” I began aloud.

I knew I was going to go. At least go and see if she’s awake. What’s the harm in that? I could feel my body struggling against leaping from the chair and dashing out the door. My pulse quickened as I made up my mind.

I stood, stretched, and sauntered as confidently as I could to the full-length mirror on my closet door, which stood open. My hair was matted down from the headphones, and a sheen of grease coated my forehead.

That’ll never do.

I checked my breath. Stale as King Tut’s tomb.

If Tut had just scarfed French onion potato chips and a warm Coca-Cola.

Would it be too much to shower beforehand?

I pondered for a split second.

Nah. It’d be transparently obvious that I was making moves.

“I’ll just wash my face and rinse my mouth out with some toothpaste.”

And maybe find a comb and drag it through those matted locks? my inner voice said, reprovingly.

I glanced at my desk clock. 12:15. At least it was a Thursday night. I grabbed my towel and a tube of Crest, fumbled through my dresser drawer until I found a black plastic comb, and placed my hand on the knob.

Here we go, Don Juan. Here. We. Go.

Originally written for my daily writing practice on May 2, 2017