I stare down at her looking up at me, all kiss-me-like. “I’m just . . . I have a headache. I’m sorry, I . . .” I cut myself off before I lie to her more.
“That’s okay.” She smiles. “Some people just don’t click, do they?”
Intriguing . . . I click with everyone.
“Do you click with most people?” I ask her.
“I do.”
“Why do you think we didn’t click?”
She shrugs. “Lots of reasons.”
“Name them.”
She laughs. “I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say.”
“Trust me, I do.”
“Well, for a start, you’re too perfect.”
I frown. “What?”
Her face falls. “Look . . . I didn’t mean to offend. That came out wrong.”
“No, please . . . ,” I reassure her. “Explain it to me. How can I get better if I don’t know what’s wrong with me?”
“You don’t need to get better. You just need to . . .” She pauses as if choosing her words wisely. “You have no substance.”
“What?” I put my hand on my chest. “Me? No substance?” I gasp, shocked. “I am high-quality fucking substance!”
She laughs. “That’s the problem. You will never understand what I mean, Christopher, and it’s okay—you don’t need to. It’s not relevant to your life.”
I frown as I stare at her. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Your life has been so perfect that you’ve never had to dig deep to find out who you really are.”
I put my weight onto my back foot, affronted that this is the second time today I am hearing this. “I disagree. Why do people think that only hardship builds character? Why would I have to dig deep to find out who I am when I already know?”
She goes up onto her toes and kisses my cheek. “Because diamonds are made under pressure.” She turns and begins to casually walk up the street.
“What does that mean?” I put my hands onto my hips in disgust. “I am a fucking diamond, Carly.” I hold my arms out wide. “Do you know how many women would love to have a diamond like me?”
She laughs out loud and turns back toward me. “The women that you spend time with just want rich coal. They don’t even know what a diamond is. It’s coal meet coal.”
My mouth falls open in horror.
She blows me a kiss and turns and walks off into the night. I run my hand over my stubble as I stare after her.
That was weird.
Hmm, and . . . I hate to admit it . . . interesting.
I walk down the street and into a bar and take a seat at the bench by the window.
“What will it be?” a waiter asks me.
“Scotch,” I reply, distracted.
It starts to rain, and I watch it fall through the window. “Here you go,” the waiter says as he places my drink down in front of me.
“Thanks.” I sit and drink alone.
I’ve had a shitty day, and I hate to admit it, but it seems there’s a part of my personality that others can see that I can’t.
The women that you spend time with just want rich coal.
I drag my hand down my face in disgust. Is that true? I tip my head back and drain my glass.