The Chemistry Between Us
*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.
Once, when I was in Positive Thinking High School, I invited a comely girl to hang out with me during the break, she was too gorgeous for a sixteen-year-old; she stood out among any crowd, I stared befuddled as a wave of students muscled past me—I was waiting outside of her classroom where she learned German—and I attracted her attention, “Alina Annie!” I barked, and she smiled intrigued. “Do you mind if we hang out during class break?” I asked, and an excited grin had formed under her snub nose.
“Sure,” She shook her chestnut hair.
“I’ll wait for you outside of the cafeteria,”
I spent the next couple hours shaking my knee anxiously, but I felt proud of doing something this chancy. At last, what seemed like an eternity finally came, I sat outside the student diner, scanning the panorama of virgins—like myself—, I thought I saw her but it turned out to be another white girl with brown hair. My excitement grew bitter as we were fifteen minutes into the break and Alina Annie was nowhere to be found, I messaged her but got no answer. I tried to disguise the embarrassment on my face, but it was useless; everyone could smell my misery, the eyes never lie—except hers, her beautiful maple orbs made me believe she wanted to spend time with me. The bell rang—forty minutes were history. I lurched towards the stairwell only to notice her, walking alongside two gay dudes—or so I wanted to believe their sexual orientation was. I tailed them, squeezing past dumb zombies, to crassly intercept their private conversation. “What in the actual fuck, Alina Annie? Why on Earth did you not show up? At least tell me up front!”
“Oh!” She made the bitchy face of a girl pretending to feel embarrassed: Squinting, brows up, with a curly smile. “I am sorry!” She cried ashamed—supposedly. “You know what? Just when the break started, I received bad news from my friend Hannah; I had no choice but to aid her emotionally.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I messaged you.”
“Why, I had no signal! Sorry!”
No, you’re not.
“I waited the entire break like a prick!”
“I’m sorry…” She whispered with a cringy smile, and I disappeared.
During the subsequent weeks, I did what I deemed best… Stalking her, day and night, like a really fucked up person. Just kidding. If you decide to read this, Aline Annie, I want you to know that I am ashamed for being rude; I have anger-management problems and I want to acknowledge that I behaved like an immature boy, I am currently working on it, and I needed to get this off my chest. However, I also want you to know that I am always available and would be happy to kiss you to sleep, read you a book, take you out to picnics, buy you clothes and heels; beautiful, shiny heels for those petite feet of yours… I would be happy to lick them… I would be pleased to remove the scum off your feet with my tongue… Mmmmm… Your tiny, neat, milky feet… With the space between your toes coated with my saliva… Me… Sucking on your pinky toe… Like a baby clinging onto its mother’s nipple… Mmmmm… I want to pierce your nipples with little needles, and then stitch them back to your breasts… Mmmmm… After I chewed them like gum… I have it all figured out… If you need another bucket for peeing or pooping just tell me, don’t be ashamed—I still have more newspaper and bread for making you a sandwich… Mmmmm… A delicious, cum-filled lunch… To think that your parents are looking for you all around town… Everyone thinks you committed suicide… You wish… Now you are mine forever… I wonder how long it will take before you develop Stockholm syndrome… I love you, Alina Annie… I will always treasure the day I met you, since you stood out among any other student in my class.
-Yours truly, Wong, your demented chemistry professor.
This story is a continuation of “Purple Shoes”.
