Kiss My Soul

This is damned good tea I'm drinking. More sugar; a bit of lemon; ah yes. Beautiful. I press the cuppa to my lips, distributing spirals of sandy brown sugar in muddy lumps across the transparent depths of the cup. I like to pretend that I am a miniature force of nature on the odd day, now and again. When I'm nettled, as I am now.

You are not my blood --though you stir it.

You'll probably go to hell together. Everyone knows that you're fucking. I mean, God, can you be any more obvious? Maybe Matt could come tap-dancing through the locker room door, pointing at you with the tip of a cane and singing 'Hey we're Gay! Yes, I'm Gay! And we're Fuuuuccckkkkking!!'"

I'm laughing because it sounds more like something you'd do. You're the one who is ridiculously reckless that way, beautifully impulsive. I thrive on this insanity from afar, because, ultimately, I'm a timid lad who can't even stake up the courage to ask you if you might like to come up and have a spot of tea sometime.

"More Sugar, Willie?" Lance asks me. The cheeky little monkey's always trying to cheer me up; he's a pleasant comfort to a day gone wrong, in any case.

"No thank you," I say, setting down the china neatly; cannot afford a spill, now. "It is damn good, Lance, the way it is."

"I thought it was the least I could do for you," he said, lifting his own cup to his lips. "Since we're in the same boat and all."

For one moment, I wonder if he rivals me in my affection for Jeffrey. Then I realized what he meant: "Yes," I say, stroking his knee. "I fear that neither of us lies in Mr. McMahon's good graces."

He nodded his head. "It's just good to sit and shoot the breeze with someone who knows what it's like to be an outcast, a reject." He looks into my eyes and touches my hand. "You do know what that's like, don't you, Willie?"

I sigh and trace my thumb over the ridge of my own brow. "Do you want to dish about someone, Lance?" I say, marking myself, making myself aware that my reputation as a curator of gossip seems to be spreading without any effort on my part. Even then, my eyes track Jeffrey across the room, where he shrieks giddily from his brother's back as he gives him a pony ride. They look sublimely ridiculous and I wonder if someone's playing some sort of rib on me.

"I seem to be experiencing an attraction to a member of the same sex." Good God, the man's blushing. "It might be abnormal, but I believe that the object of my affection has been permanently detained...by another person, of course."

I listened to him, with only a slight level of interest. "I see." I waited. "Well, what's the bloody fellow's name?" I said, mildly irritated

Lance leaned forward in his seat, to the point that our noses nearly touched, "Everyone knows him," he said. "Half the locker room has a crush on him." He blushed again and whispered, "His name's Jeff Hardy."

It appears you stir someone's heart other than mine, Jeffrey Hardy. And because I don't have the courage inside of me to do anything about it, I'll watch you and your brother parade around the backstage like you're the only people to have ever discovered the magic of love. My thoughts echo within my brain so hard that my soul is rattling around in my skull; to the point that I cannot think very well for a great deal of the day. Morning, noon and night, there is pain. So I take back what I said about hell. Purgatory might be a better home for you; there, you might learn what it is truly like to desire someone you cannot have...

"Well, that is quite a conundrum, Lance." I lift my porcelain teapot in salute to our mutual condemnation, sensing that this is just the beginning of a beautiful friendship. "More tea?"


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