Your Life, My Rules - Adele McKelvie

Rule 1: Don’t ever sit there and eat your cake before your pie comes. Or that’s it. I’ll tell you I’m going to the bathroom, and I’ll walk straight out of that lunch-bar. And that’ll be the last you see of me.

Rule 2: You open my car door for me on our first date. Otherwise I’ll say I’ve got a headache and want to watch TV. It’s a matter of respect. ‘They don’t treat you right from the start, they never will.’ Same goes for my drinks. You pay. Or it’s never going to happen.

Rule 3: Never ask if you can kiss me. You do that, I’ll reply ‘negative.’ Your small, dry mouth will fall open anyway, and I’ll probably snort loudly, because that’s the dumbest thing you could ever say. I’ll leave you whimpering in the corner with your coat ticket butt in my pocket.

Rule 4: Don’t even think about wearing a checked shirt tucked in, and ironed, and shit. Or put crap in your hair. You turn up like that and I will play you. I’ll let you show me how to use the cue in a game of pool and then I’ll invite you home. I’ll serve you a cup of green tea, and lead you to my deserted flatmate’s room, where you can use a sleeping bag on top of his bed. And you will go along with it. Because A you’re the polite type and B you think there’s a chance I’ll appear in your doorway in a black lace g-string. But I won’t. I’ll be getting my beauty sleep down the hall, with a big fat smile on my face. And eventually you’ll leave as quiet as a mouse with your tail dangling between your legs.

Rule 5: You eye up any slut, and you’re history. If I put on my silver sparkle strapless dress and pink heels that just maxed out my credit card, and you take me to a place where a tiger-print bikini bitch is shaking her arse in a cage, and you so much as peek, the hell I’ll take that. Next date, I won’t laugh when you laugh in the movie, and I’ll point out bald guys who really do it for me, and we’ll go to an Adults Only shop to check out a new dildo for me. And even though I still look pretty by your side, you’ll start to doubt yourself. And feel insecure. Then you’ll stop texting me, and it’ll be six months before you can ask anyone else out.

Rule 6: Don’t get cocky. In other words, don’t ever think I want you as desperately as you want me. Or else I’ll drop you like dead meat. If you say you don’t dance, guarantee I’ll make you. I’ll fetch you a cold one, ‘hon.’ You’ll feel my lips on your sweaty neck, my fingers pull back through your curls. And you’ll follow me like a lamb onto the dance floor, where the shame of your pathetic-as robot moves will end you up in a sad heap on the lounge carpet. And I’ll be grinding my happy hips against my flatmate’s friend from Peru.

Rule 7: Don’t use me. If you need a fancy girl to parade round your mates, and we go bar hopping, and a waiter whispers in my ear, ‘Did you know he’s gay,’ I’m going to squeeze those saggy balls of yours so hard they’ll pop. When you’ve got no choice but to take me back to your place, and you keep talking all goddamn night, and we finally head for your room for fuck-knows what, and you tell me three times not to leave my purse out in the kitchen for your so-called flatmate to see, I’m going leave it there. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’ll send you real intense stuff in the mail, magazines and shit, addressed to you at your home and place of work. And your cover, mate, will be blown.

Rule 8: Don’t play me. I can play you (see Rule 4) but playing me is strictly out of bounds. You step over the line and I will break your precious dream. I’ll smash it into tiny pieces. Easy. If you and I get close, but not real close quick enough, according to you, and you get another girl on the scene to make me jealous, to drive me fast into your arms, you’ll have lifted my game to a whole new level. You screw me like that? I screw you back and leave off the condom, so you think we’ve got a future together. But what you don’t know is, I’ll get hold of that pill, and I’ll swallow it. And I’ll wait till a tender moment to tell you why we have nothing in the works together. Then I’ll wash my hands of your chicken-shit tears. For good.


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Contributor's Note

Adele has taken two papers in creative writing at Waikato University. After many years of dreaming about writing fiction, she's finally started - and loving it!


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