Concrete Candies

“You’ll never be content.”

He said it as her back faced him. He meant for it to feel like a dagger to the back of her heart, meant for it to cut deep, but the statement barely touched her.

She knew he was right. That she was self-absorbed, obsessed with herself. She turned her head to look at him, not even caring enough to turn all the way around, staring into his eyes as he stared into hers. A stand-off. He spoke again.

“You…”

The girl knew he was searching for the right words, knew she intimidated him.

“The only person who will ever be good enough for you,” he took a step towards her, putting his finger in her face, “is you.”

Her eyes glanced down at the man’s hand inches away from her nose, then back up at him. Then, not speaking, turned her head back around, and out of the door she went.

Walking down the pavement and back to her car, she got in, starting the engine and promptly driving away. She laughed a little. He was right, but in a way, he was utterly wrong. He had gotten something correct: she wasn’t content. That was true.

As she sped down the highway the streetlights were reflected onto her rings, her own personal light show. She liked the way her hands looked on the wheel, her nails long and glistening, fingers graceful and pretty. Looking up at the road, she swerved back into her lane, realizing she had drifted while admiring herself. She laughed again.

Pulling off the highway and into a station, she parked right in front of the door. It was late enough that no one else’s car was in the parking lot, save the lone cashier. Walking in and through the aisles, the smell of gasoline and heavy cleaner filled her head. She stood out in a place like this, such a grimy, dirty old gas station. She liked it that way.

Grabbed a bag of sour strips, walked to the counter, threw them down. The boy at the register scanned them quietly and took her cash, not even looking in her eyes.

“Would you like a receipt?”

She shook her head, grabbing the bag and starting towards the door. The boy’s voice stopped her.

“Excuse me, miss?”

She turned her head to look at him, not caring enough to turn completely around.

“I just, I’m sorry, you’re very pretty.”

She smiled at him. Then out the door she went.

Poor boy, she thought as she sat down on the curb next to her car. She didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to face herself in the mirror. Not yet. She pulled at the package of candy, trying to open it, but the stubborn plastic wouldn’t budge. Pulling again, harder, it finally gave, although a few pieces fell to the concrete. She picked one up.

Dirt and gravel were stuck to it, the granules of sugar glittering in the fluorescent light. She put the candy in her mouth. The small pieces of rock crunched under her teeth, the sugar melting on her tongue. She wanted to feel something.

Maybe she was self-absorbed. Maybe she was a narcissist, obsessed with how she looked and behaved, how she was perceived. And maybe she wasn’t content.

But even then.

“The only person who will ever be good enough for you is you.”

It wasn’t true.

She loathed herself. Below her self obsession was a feeling of emptiness, a void that she had found nothing to fill with. At her core, there was a burning hatred that had manifested itself into the desire to be wanted, to be adored. She was living an illusion, wanting people to love her, wanting them to fall at her feet and worship her, wanting to be a god. 

She dug her heel into the pavement, twisting it as she crushed the gravel into dust. Leaning forward and putting her head on her knees, she released all the air in her lungs and held her breath. If she died right there, on the curb of some fifty year old gas station, she wouldn’t be upset. Maybe this was where she was meant to be, a cinderblock building filled with artificial light and artificial food. Maybe she didn’t stand out here after all.

Lifting her head back up she stared into the nothingness in front of her, watching car lights speed by in intervals, right past the station and right past her. Those people in the cars would never know her, never know she even existed. What a god she was.

She stood up and brushed off the back of her skirt, leaving her half eaten bag of candy on the ground. Walking back into the station, she returned to the counter and whistled to the boy who now had his back to her. He turned and stepped towards her, and she pointed at a lottery ticket displayed on the counter, which he then retrieved for her. She paid, finding it strange he didn’t even check to see if she was old enough to buy it. She liked to think it was because he wanted her to have it, but she knew the truth: he simply didn’t care enough to ask.

She pulled a quarter out of the tip jar and began to scratch away, feeling the boy’s eyes watching as she did. A dud.

“Sorry, miss,” he said, looking away from the counter and into her eyes, “maybe next time you-”

She cut him off by simply leaving the ticket in front of him and walking away.

As she stepped back into the cool night air, she looked down at the bag of sour strips that she had left abandoned on the curb. It looked so pitiful, ants now crawling on the candies, the breeze swaying the plastic in a way that it looked as if the bag was breathing. She honestly felt bad for it.

Her eyes squinted in a smile. She felt bad. She could feel it. Guilt.

Although she was empty, maybe she wasn’t completely hollow. There was something there. She shouldn’t be proud of herself, and she knew it, too, but now, in this one moment in the middle of the night, outside of the station, alone, she knew that at least, she could still feel.