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Jingle Bells.

Looking at her face, I saw her veins beat in her forehead as she screamed, "Lies! You're all lies, you bitch!"

"Sochie," I tried to calm her, "you don't understand." But Sochie understood. I understood. I lived my life as a lie.

"Fuck you! I love you, you bitch, can't you see? Don't you know? You're mine," she said, and stomped her feet.

I saw the true Sochie, the child-orchid trying to bloom. Sochie owned vulnerability, insecurity and a deep seeded fear of rejection within her. I hated myself for perpetuating her insecurity. I wanted her to beat the shit out of me. The young woman shared my tumultuous way of being.

"I need you," she begged, clutching my arm tightly.

Forcefully, I removed her hand and said in a resigned voice, "You don't understand."

Her face reddened and anger surged. "So now you got it, huh? You got your little coed girly ass fuck and you're happy-another notch on your lipstick case. Go brag bitch, go brag, you're about the hundredth ass I've fucked so far this year. I can get anyone, why do I want a fat bitch like you? No one does this to me! No one! You're not even a good piece of ass....fucked better dogs than you. Go fuck your faggot husband."

"Stop it, Sochie!" I yelled. It ceased raining. I looked at her, and slowly said, "You don't mean it."

"Fuck you!" she shouted, turning and walking off down the alley. She stopped before reaching the street as if waiting for me to come to get her. I didn't. Instead, I went back in my car, sat down, put my head on the steering wheel and slapped my cheeks until my face felt numb, then, and only then, I cried. What the fuck did I do?

I loved her and let her go.


The following Monday at work, she showed up in my office. Sochie looked horrid, wearing no makeup; her eyes were bloodshot, clothing disheveled, and general demeanor a mess. Coming around my desk to face me with her hands on her hips, she slurred, "Let's go to my house. Fuck everything. C'mon."

I looked at her and held back tears. Part of me wanted to go with her and find happiness, but the closeted lesbian took charge, and I said, "No Sochie, I have too much to lose."

"Fuck, lose?" she said with anger. "What exactly? This? This life of lies? You choose this over happiness? Over me? Who are you Amber? Who are you going to be? Bitch!" She pushed her face within inches of mine showing a mix of passion and hurt.

I said nothing, but smelled the stench of alcohol and vomit on her breath.

"Tell me you don't want me, and I'll leave. Tell me you have no feelings for me...what happened on that dance that alley wasn't love? Tell me!"

The room grew silent for a few seconds except for the humming air conditioner.

"I can read your epitaph now. The epitaph about the fool you are.

"Today, Mrs. Amber Tyson died. She died unfulfilled, never embracing who she really was. Her passing affected no one, because she loved no one. She could not love. Celebrating her death was her husband, who, after fifty years of a sexless marriage could finally leave the toilet seat up. One former student cried, saying something about what should have been, and finishing her prayers by calling her a bitch. Perhaps Amber can rest in peace in heaven, because as God knows, she had none on earth."

She waited for me to respond. I did nothing but look away from her.

"You stupid fool! You're saying that what happened between us was only a lie? Can you say that Amber? Look deep in you. Is THAT what you want? To forever be wondering and wanting what you may have been? What we could be? No one does this to me! Tell me right now that you don't have strong feelings for me...feelings that are more than this so called counselor-student relationship."

I still said nothing.

"I want you," she cried.


"Badly, no one does this to me," she said and reached for my hand.

"No," I said, pulling my hand away.

"Follow me Amber," she said in a pleading voice.

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