Mean It

by Jane Davitt

Definition of 'mean': add the numbers and then divide by the number of numbers.

Blair's dated three men and four women this year so far. I've met them all. He's made sure I've met them all.

Ranking them according to looks, intelligence, and sex appeal, minus how much I want to kick them down the stairs keeps me amused as I wait for him to return, kiss-stained and grubby from their groping hands.

Or, to be honest, it keeps me from calling his cell and claiming a sentinel emergency to bring him back to me, rushed, flushed and anxious. That's tempting; I love the way I become his focus then, all that he's thinking about, but I've got some dignity left.

Sasha was a solid three out of ten. Tittering laugh, annoying hair-flip habit, pointy nails she used on Blair's back.

Make than a two. She marked him. I've got my own fantasies about doing that, thank you, lady.

Paul. Oh, Paul, Paul, Paul... Just my type; that lean, long body, those big hands, but Blair's? I don't think so, and thank God, neither did Blair. Paul was....yeah, he was sweet, but dim, and he lasted less time than Joe, the muscle-bound jock with the protein shake addiction.

They came (hopefully not with, on, or in Blair) and they went. Leggy redheads, soldier boys... The average date for Blair was this weird mix of what I liked in a woman and I what I saw when I looked in a mirror. I couldn't figure it out.

Until one night I stopped rating them and rated me.


Blair likes the way I look. He tells me that with the way his breath catches when I walk by dressed in a smile.

He likes being with me; we spend more hours together than apart, if you don't count sleeping, and hell, as the crow flies, he's about eight feet below me then; it's not far. (Closer would be good. Change 'feet' to 'inches' and we're getting there. Centimeters would work too; Canadians use them, and they're good people. We need to go metric in this country. I'm just saying.)

And he should want to kick me down whole flights of stairs, because sometimes I'm an asshole, but he doesn't and it goes both ways; he drives me mad with this parade of dates for instance, but I'm starting to wonder if he doesn't know that. If that's exactly what he -- hmm.

Turns out, I skewed the curve. Perfect eleven out of ten.

Okay, my math might be shaky (I added three points for being a sentinel; top that, Peter, singer with the cool rock band looking for a new guitarist. I mean, please. Blair strums, but he knows three chords, tops; as chat-up lines go, it lacked any credibility) but I know one thing; Blair deserves more than the average Joe.

He deserves a James. Because I'm the only one of them who can tell Blair he's loved, needed, hell, essential to my happiness, and mean it.

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