Short Story - BAD HABITS

This month in my writers group, we decided to be inspired by music/lyrics. I had Ed Sheeran stuck in my head, so I dug into the song “Bad Habits.” Here is the song and 495 words on the subject. It’s my first time writing in the first person, and I believe it has some nice and snarky goodness. Enjoy. 😇

BAD HABITS

Bad Habits. Everybody has them. Biting your nails, picking your nose, binging absurd amounts of Netflix, public masturbation. Anything in excess can be considered a bad habit. I have a lot of them.

Like Jennifer. Jennifer is a complete mess and fixing her is a bad habit of mine. It’s moved way beyond “hobby” into something like a compulsion. A recovering addict with borderline personality disorder, codependency to the roof and back, my latest project/girlfriend is a true piece of work.

I’m smitten.

My most extreme bad habit is needing people to need me. It’s the basis of my, admittedly questionable, personality.

“Why do you have to be this way?” Jennifer rants at me as I hold my stubby hands out in supplication.

“Because I love you,” I say in the most soothing voice possible. Like calling a cat from behind a bush. Like, Here, Jenny-Jenny. Don’t fight. I have food.

My words make her sigh and steeple her fingers over her, no-doubt, pounding headache. “Look, Charlie.”

And now I know I’m in trouble. I’m not “honey” or “sweety” or “baby” or “sunshine.” At least she didn’t go all out and call me Charles.

“I’m smothered,” she says. “I feel like I can’t even go to the bathroom without you hanging outside the door.”

“That was one time, and it was only because I used all the toilet paper on purpose!”

It’s true. I’d wanted to hear her get pissy. She’s hilarious when she’s pissy. Pretty face – maybe a tad too weathered looking for her age, but still nice – scrunched up with her nose crinkled in that cute way. Her voice always hikes up an octave in exasperation and the make-up sex is amazing. Right now, though, she’s not pissy at all. Tired looking more than anything. 

She groans, “You know I love you, too…”

I wait for the “but.”

“…But I just need space.”

I hate that. The very concept. Who’s gonna keep her from skipping breakfast? Who’s gonna keep her going to her NA meetings? Who’s gonna coo over all the chips she earns and treat her to backrubs. Positive reinforcement, Jenny. Where would you be without it?

“Do you want to sleep in the second bedroom instead?” I try, like an idiot. I can tell I’m an idiot because she shoots me a look that’s sarcastic on top of her regular brand of scathing.

I’m guessing make-up sex is off the table.

I’d be afraid, except for that she breaks up with me regularly. And comes back again. I told you she was codependent. She’s addicted to my personal brand of dryer sheet clinging to all her staticky spots.

She picks up a bag she’d already packed, one she keeps at the ready for scenes like this, and walks out the door, a forlorn look cast over her shoulder. I do my best to look devastated. It’s not hard. Perhaps I’m codependent, too.

Add that to my list of bad habits.