Every new person you meet is a snake, waiting to get close enough so they can bite you in the heart and spread their venom into your nervous system.

I've learned this the hard way. Which is, of course, getting bitten. For the past four years, I've felt the sharp teeth pierce my skin more times than I could count. Each time, I swore it would be the last - I'd become a better judge of people, or hesitate before I let them get close. But I've been bitten so many times, I'm starting to feel numb. I meet someone, and then I expect them to bite me. I'm surprised when they don't.

The latest snake's name is Jennifer. She sat behind me in a class last year, and we made a few wiseass remarks here and there over the professor's lectures. Class ended, but I ran into her over the summer. She suggested I give her a call, and I did, being quite foolish at that time. I'm a slow study.

Anyway, we get to talking on a regular basis, and like everyone else I know, she falls into the old, predictable pattern of spilling her life's problems on my lap. It must be written on my forehead or something, "I'm a sucker! Talk to me!"

A few days before now, we had been hanging out back at my place. Much like every other time I'd talked with her, we started talking about random things; classes, work, her unnatural love for hot dogs. It didn't take long though to degenerate into her latest failed romantic endeavor. About half an hour into the typical exposition and over-analysis of the situation, she hit me with Old Reliable.

"But enough about me. What's going on with you?"

"The usual. School, work." It's my standard response. I use it so much the words no longer have meaning.

"I didn't mean like that," she had pouted. She was sitting on my bed in my apartment, wearing a white tank top and blue shorts she had casually thrown on. I'm not a legs man, but man does she have some. Smooth like milk, and perfect as if sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Her short, black hair fell down her head until it got to around her neck, where the tips curl towards heaven. I had to admit, right then I found myself wishing she was in my bed, not just on it.

"I mean, you never talk about yourself," she said. "I always tell you about what's going on in my life, but you never do the same."

I shrugged. "Nothing to tell. I wake up, I go to class. I sleep in class, I go to work. I get home, I eat, I go to sleep. Repeat a few times."

"There has to be more to it than that. I know there are things going on in your life, you just don't talk about them."

"Nothing to talk about," I'd said.

This happens a lot. The people I know will say that I never talk about myself, and ask me why. What the hell do they care anyway? We all say "how are you?", but nobody actually means it. It's just a nice starting point for people to talk about their problems, in the same way "how was your day?" paves the way for them to talk about how wonderful/crappy theirs was.

So I play dodge ball for a few rounds, and they give up. Usually, anyway. But not Jennifer. That day, she got upset at me. She stood up, and on the verge of tears said, Damn it, Phil!", her chest heaving from frustration. She said our friendship felt one-sided. Why don't I open up to her? She said that for the past month she'd known me, she had been thinking about me and why I was so "closed off." She said she really cared about me, and wanted to grow closer.

I think it was the tears. I mean, I'd never had anyone pull that reaction on me. But I really think it was the tears that did it. That's the noblest thing one human can do for another. Tears are real; nobody cries because they want to, but because they can't stop it.

So, I get to thinking, maybe she's the one. Actually, I start believing that "the ones" existed again. Y'see, before I became numb, I used to think I was just making bad decisions in who to trust. I was hanging onto people I shouldn't have, taking for granted those that shouldn't be. I just had to be more careful. "The ones," the people I could actually trust, were out there. I just had to find them.

And then as I continued to get bitten, I realized that there were no "ones," no people I could trust. If you let someone in, they'd pillage you for whatever they could take until there was nothing left. Because people are intrinsically selfish. I've learned that too.

When she left that day, I told her I'd think about what she said. And I actually did. I thought that night in bed, the next morning in the shower, in class, and even a few times in the bathroom. Four days and a crapload of good thinking later, I still don't really have an answer.

So here we are. Jennifer and I are in a Japanese restaurant downtown. I called her up and invited her out, and she jumped at it, her voice sounding genuinely glad to hear from me. There's colorful artwork on the walls; dragons, samurais, feudal villages, things like that. The restaurant is half full. Odd for a Thursday night. But, the food here isn't very good, so that's probably a good reason why. So there's a low, dull hum of voices - not loud enough to make noise, but just enough so that your conversations don't get heard. That's why I picked it.

We're mostly finished with our meal. We've danced around the subject, never actually addressing it. So far, we've talked about our regular gym habits, why baseball is better than basketball, classic Nintendo video games, her having to deal with being attracted to her male roommate, her having to deal with her male roommate's jealous ex-girlfriend, and her thinking that she doesn't get that much attention from guys because of her small chest (clearly, women don't realize that it's the shape, and not the size that counts). So yeah, everything but the big enchilada. I can tell she does not want to be the one to bring it up. I don't blame her.

When we came here, I still didn't know how to approach her. Past experiences have taught me one thing, but when I look at her, she begs me to believe in something else. A few times during the meal, our eyes caught each other, and we smiled. And my heart sped up so fast, I thought for sure she could see it beating through my shirt. But now…now…oh what the hell. We'll see how this goes.

"I want to be an artist," I announce. She looks up at me over her sushi.

"What?" she says.

"An artist. I want to be an artist. I love to draw and paint. Can't do it well to save my life, but I still love it. I know there's no money, no future in it. But I really want to do it. Maybe a hobby, aside from my career, whatever that's going to be. You know, I can have a little studio in my garage, paint things on the weekends."

She smiles. "You've never told me that." She knows what this means.

"I've never told anyone that."

"Why not? It's a good dream."

And now we're reached the truly difficult part of the evening.

I look up at her, right into those tender brown eyes. "This is hard for me to say. To anyone."

"You can tell me anything. I mean that - I want to know. I have been wanting to know for a while now."

"Well, it's just that…I used to be a nice guy."

"Used to?"

"You know what I mean. I was a throw rug. I was the guy who was always ready to do favors for people. I was the one who bought his friends expensive birthday presents, drove three hours up the freeway just to see them, stayed up all night to listen to problems. I was that kind of nice guy."

"What's wrong with that?"

I can't help but smile here. "Funny you should ask. Because no one truly knew what was wrong. I mean, I was the guy who was there when it was convenient. When they needed a favor, or when they needed advice, I was there. But that was all. When they wanted to party, or just have fun, they went to everyone else. And I ended up hearing about it the next day."

"That's terrible."

"It was always like that. All I did was do things for them, solve their problems. After a while…it wears you down. Plus, no one was there for me when I needed something. I tried to convince myself I was happy making them happy…but I really wasn't."

"That's only natural," she says, "you put out so much, of course you're going to want something in return."

"And it hurt, y'know. I let them get close to me…and I thought I had at least done the same with them, but I hadn't. They didn't care about me. This was every person I cared about. Every one I talked to, shared with, was willing to spin the earth backwards for. They didn't return the feelings. So I had to stop caring about them. All of them. Because if I opened up again, trusted another person, they would hurt me. And I couldn't take it anymore." I smile. My tale is depressing - I'd never really heard it before. I wouldn't be surprised if Jennifer decides to give up on me now. Wouldn't blame her. "So that's why I don't talk about myself. Don't want to get too close."

Jennifer's eyes begin to shine again. Is it possible? Okay, once maybe you could no-sell. But twice? I couldn't cry twice even if my stereo had been stolen. And damn, I love that stereo.

She closes her eyes, squeezing out a teardrop that quickly falls on the table. She then takes my hand.

"Before I came to college," Jennifer says, "I was really shy."

Okay, not quite the response I was expecting having laid myself out there, but sure, we'll go with it for the moment.

"You?" I say, a little surprised. "But you're always going to parties."

"That took a lot of time and work. I had a hard time making friends, exposing myself to people. And I was miserable. You know how it is in high school; if you're not popular, you're on the outside wishing you were inside. I hated it, so I decided that when I got to college, I would make a new Jennifer. One that made friends, and that people liked."

"You succeeded," I say. "At least, from what I can tell."

"Not really. I may go to parties, I may have a lot of friends, but I'm still that quiet, shy girl who went home and played Nintendo on Friday nights. I'm happy I was able to break out of that…but it is still who I am. And I do miss it, a little bit. I guess I'm still searching for who I really am." She smiles slightly, squeezing my hand a little tighter. "I've never told that to anyone."

So why are you telling it to me now?

"I'm telling this to you now to show you that I understand," she says. Either she's a mind reader, or I'm just that transparent. "I know what it feels like when you think that everyone is passing you over. I've felt it myself. I still do. I think everybody does."

"I don't care about everybody."

"Phil, I'm really glad we became friends. You're the only person I've met that really understands that feeling. I want you to know how important you are to me, and that you will never be second best."

Pretty words. Just like that painting of a feudal Japanese village on the wall to my left. I don't think that village ever really existed. But it still looks nice.

"I understand why you've been so closed off with me," she continues, "but you don't have to be anymore. Phil, I promise, I will never hurt you. I'm happy you finally opened up to me. I have been wanting to know."

"Well, now you do. So now what?"

She laughs. It's small, and seems to tickle the dull conversation hum in the air. "Now, we become better friends. Because that's what friendship is - not just doing fun things and talking about stuff. But really being there when the other person needs you. You have always been there for me Phil. And it means so much to me. I'm so glad that now, I can be there for you. I feel closer to you already."

Amazing that this girl really isn't interested in me romantically, isn't it? That's a shame too, because right now, I'd like nothing more than to take her home. That's not going to happen, of course. The only way I'll get Jennifer in my bed is if I get her drunk enough.

And don't think that hasn't crossed my mind once or twice.

But that's okay. That's a very carnal instinct. Right now, she's doing something for me much greater. She's filling an emotional void, one that has been cold and dark for quite some time now. I feel that I can trust her. And I like it.

Maybe I just did have some really bad luck. But I look into her features, which have somehow become softer as the night progresses, and I feel as though my luck is changing.

It's been one month since I spilled my guts to Jennifer in that crappy Japanese restaurant. I remember that night she told me that she felt like we were becoming closer. And we did, too. We continue to see each other every few days. We do a lot of the same things as before; go out somewhere, do something fun. She'll go into a bitch-fest with me about some problems, and I'll listen somewhat and offer advice. But now, I can talk to her. I can have bitch-fests of my own. I've told her about my family, and my dreams, and my opinions on things. She has listened to everything, and responded; giving me advice, relating to some of my stories, even sharing a dream or two.

It's Friday. I don't have any plans, and I'm expecting a full and exciting day of reruns on television, and an early bedtime. I'm tired from the week, and I could use the time to unwind. But Jennifer calls me up and suggests we get together. I'm all for it. We start off with dinner, and then head back to her place. She has been thinking of redecorating her room, and wants feedback from me on it. We're busy thinking of ways to rearrange; where the bed should go, and I'm steadily insisting that the large poster of some current male heartthrob actor over her bed be summarily taken down.

Seriously.

Her cell phone rings. It's a friend she's known from a few years back. She talks a little bit, but does not want to be rude to me so she's trying to keep things short. It's nice to have a friend who doesn't shove me aside when someone better comes along. No, I am the someone better. It's great.

She tells him that she and I are just hanging out at her place, and he can come by if he wants. I don't know this guy. And I don't like newness. But okay, sure. Doesn't hurt, right? Get to know some of her other friends.

His name's Mike. He's average in every way imaginable. Average height, average build, average facial features. Uninspired dirty brown hair, and a blue polo shirt with a faded pair of blue jeans. I'd forget what he looks like if I wasn't looking right at him. Hell, I'm on the verge of forgetting him now. But he's a cool guy, so I can't bust his chops too much.

After a little discussion, we decide to go to a club downtown, and just relax. Neither one of us has the energy for anything thrilling, yet we don't want to stay here. Mike drives his own car, while Jennifer goes with me; Mike may leave early.

We arrive at the club. It's your average, run of the mill den of decadence. Chairs and benches along the walls, a DJ near the back wall, and dancing in the middle. Drinks in the back. It's dark of course, and the whole place hangs heavy with the smell of cigarettes, perfume, and human sweat. Music pumps so loudly it penetrates your mind, obliterating everything else.

We cut through the deluge and find a table outside, where the music isn't as obtrusive. The talk is general at first - mostly spotting people who were wearing outfits they really should not have been, and making fun of them for it. But eventually, Jennifer and Mike start talking about people they know.

I don't know these people.

There's nothing I can say. So I just sit there, smiling and looking stupid. Oh well, what can I do, right? They'll talk about something else, and then I'll participate. No problem.

Mike gets up to go to the bathroom. After he's out of earshot, Jennifer leans in closer to me.

"Hey, Phil, are you okay?" she asks.

"Sure, why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, it's just that Mike and I got off on our friends, and you're really quiet over there."

"Not much I can say on the subject."

"Yeah, I know. I was thinking about that too. I don't want you to feel excluded or anything."

"It's fine. You're talking about your friends. I can't add anything; that's unfortunate, but it's okay."

"Because, if you are feeling excluded, you can always let me know."

"I know." I smile at her. "I know. You've always been there for me."

She smiles in return.

Mike comes back from his bathroom break, and the conversation resumes. It's still about their friends, things they've done together, and the usual gossip. Again, there isn't much I can say, so I'm just sitting there, inhaling second-hand smoke, waiting for something else to happen. No big deal.

Eventually, Jennifer decides she wants to dance. Sure, we'll dance. I have to admit, the prospect of dancing with her excites me. No, not the "smiling and moving next to or in front of each other" dancing your parents wish you do. I mean the "this looks like dry sex, and even then I'm not sure the girl isn't getting pregnant" dancing. It's great - women will do this with almost any guy, from "just friends" to the random stranger they've never seen before. For them, it's having fun. For us, it's getting our rocks off.

So yeah, I really wanted to dance with Jennifer.

We all come inside, and Jennifer and I go out on the dance floor. Mike stays behind, as he is still contemplating leaving early. That's fine by me; that means I get her all to myself out there. You had her for the conversation, Mike, I get her for the dancing. Selfish, I know, but I can't help the feeling.

It's just as loud as ever. Conversation is effectively snuffed out, so I just follow Jennifer to a spot on the floor that isn't as crowded as everywhere else. We start dancing, and even with the lack of light, Jennifer still looks good. Her body pulsates to the music, moving with every beat. The sound fuels her, pumping an excess of life through her veins that has to come out in her dancing. She is easily the most vivacious girl out there. I can't wait to get closer and dance with her.

It will have to wait though. She leans in closer, and says, "I'll be right back," in my ear. I nod okay, and continue to dance. She wanders away and gets lost in the human sea. With her gone, some of the girls around me get a little confident. I notice them slowly moving closer to me. One girl backs up into me, obviously wanting a dance. I humor her for a bit, but there is no enjoyment in it for me whatsoever. She's merely a placeholder, a substandard substitute.

It's been more than a minute. More like ten. I've been out on the dance floor waiting for Jennifer, but I haven't seen her for a while. I'm getting tired, so I decide to leave myself. I find Jennifer - she's standing away from the dance floor with Mike. They're talking; the music is loud, so they have to yell into each other's ears. I join them, but the nature of the conversation really affords me no opportunity to join. I don't even know what they're saying. I stand there for a good five minutes, trying to look entertained. This is no fun. Oh well, no big deal. I decide to go out on the dance floor again. It's better than standing here.

No it's not. The dance floor is nothing but a pre-mating ritual. I can feel it. I can feel the guys, idly biding their time until they can find a girl who is receptive to them. I can feel the girls, selectively choosing the guys, moving away from the ones they don't like, all the while searching for the ones they do. I don't want any part of it. It's all so silly - the men might as well start head-butting each other, save us all some time. I can't take it anymore. I don't need this. Jennifer is here. And Mike's decent, despite the whole average thing. I'll spend time with them.

I come down from the dance floor to find them in the same position I left them. Well…not quite. They're holding each other now. She's obviously drunk. She doesn't have any romantic interest in him, I know, but the alcohol makes her want male attention. She's told me that before. I can see it now. I join them, but again, my presence is not only unnecessary, it's wholly unnoticed. This is worse than the dance floor. Might as well go get a drink.

I head for the bar, stand in line for a few minutes, and get a beer. I've always found beer to be quite odd - it has a bitter taste to it, but after a few sips you get used to it. After a few bottles, you even get to liking it.

I make my way around the bar to find Jennifer and Mike again. They're not holding each other - this time they're just arm in arm. I decide to actively get their attention this time.

"Hey guys, what's up?" I ask.

"Oh!" Jennifer says, almost surprised. As if she didn't know I was in the bar at all, much less I was the one who drove her here. "Um, we're having a private conversation."

...Private conversation, huh? Well. Isn't that special.

"Okay." I say. What can I say to that? I turn around to leave.

"Sorry." I hear her say behind me. Oh good, "sorry." So glad she's "sorry."

The dance floor is still not an option for me. I hated it fifteen minutes ago, I'll hate it still. I should just leave. After all, they're having a "private conversation." But, I am Jennifer's ride, and she did leave her purse in my car, so I should stay.

Consequently, that puts me at a table on the other side of the bar, slowly sipping my beer. And that made me truly unique. Because people do not go to bars to slowly sip beer at tables by themselves. Oh no, there are many reasons why people go to bars, and I promise you, that's not one of them. Yet, there I was. I could feel the heavy judgments of people as they walked by my solitary table. I watched as they danced, and talked among themselves. And I tried to pretend the nutrition information on the beer label was just that damned interesting. Before I knew it, that all too familiar feeling of being discarded crept into my chest. And as it washed over me like a wave on a beach, Jennifer's words from not even an hour ago rang loudly in my head.

"I don't want you to feel excluded or anything."

"We're having a private conversation."

Thirty minutes passed. Wasn't Mike planning on leaving early anyway? Now I really wanted to go. I decided to be rude and interrupt the "private conversation". I walked to the other side of the bar, where Mike and Jennifer had left their previous position to find a bench in a quiet corner of the club. To effectively hold the "private conversation", I assume. Because you wouldn't want something distracting you in that kind of situation, would you?

Inconsiderate as I am, I have to butt in. Again, they seem quite surprised to see me. I tell them whenever they're ready to go, just let me know. I'll be on the other side of the bar. They acknowledge my message, and then promptly resume the "private conversation." Oh good, glad I didn't keep them off track for long.

I return to my table of solitude. Another forty-five minutes roll by. At least people aren't staring anymore. They are either too drunk to care, or too into their newfound partner for the night. Good for them.

Mercifully, the bar closes. The lights are raised, lifting the shadow of ignorance and exposing the grim, ugly reality of the building. So it's no wonder that people start filing out quickly. I had told Mike and Jennifer to come find me when they were ready to go. I wonder if I should leave, or wait for them. My question is quickly answered, as I spot them leaving the bar, arm in arm. So I leave my table of solitude, giving it a silent farewell before I go. She was good to me. Oh well, at least the night is finally over. I might have left long ago, as sitting and watching people dance and flirt for over an hour is not exactly my idea of fun. Despite my wishes, I couldn't just up and leave.

I am, after all, Jennifer's ride.

I exit the club to find them waiting for me. How nice. Jennifer is the first to speak.

"Hey Phil, can I get my purse out of your car? I'm going to go home with Mike."

Oh, of course. That makes perfect sense.

"Sure, no problem." I walk off without them, not bothering to wait for them to catch up to me. I unlock my car and get in it quickly, almost throwing the purse at her.

"Did you have fun?" she asks sweetly.

Oh yeah, so much fun, I could hardly contain myself. I did some real good sitting tonight. Hoo-boy.

"Eh." I say.

"Oh, you didn't have a good time?"

I shrug. What is the proper way to verbalize scathing, painful hell?

"Oh. Are you mad at me?"

Mad at you? Why, whatever would give you that impression? What could I possibly be upset about?

"No, I'm fine." I lie. I'm very much an all or nothing person. And nothing is much easier than all, especially in the parking lot of the bar. "I'll talk to you later." I say before I shut the car door. She waves briefly, before restoring her arm in its proper position in Mike's arm. They walk off together.

I drive home by myself.

Home. My apartment. My sanctuary. I go to my room, and quickly discard my clothes and everything they had absorbed. I'm barely able to make it to my bed - the same one I had sometimes wished I could share with Jennifer. My body is tired, and I have nothing left to give. My head hits the pillow, and as it does, I feel something surging up within me. I know exactly what it is, and I don't want to do it, but there is nothing I can do. Me, a simple man, against an uncontrollable force of nature. Who's going to win that fight?

It starts with a single tear, from my right eye. The left eye contributes a droplet of it's own, and before I know it, the drops are now a storm, and my pillow is getting wet. It's shameful. It's distasteful. It's horrible. I want to stop, but no matter what I do, I can't. And that helplessness only makes it worse.

And I hate myself for it.

My pillow is dry now.

It's been a month since that night at the bar. I talked to Jennifer once since then. She called me that Sunday, just to talk. I guess she could hear from my voice that something didn't sit right, because she asked me what was wrong, and if I was upset with her. I tried to deflect her questions, but she was persistent, and I caved. I told her about what happened that night, and how I felt.

I did however, leave out the part concerning my soggy pillow.

I didn't tell her how much what happened hurt me, but I did tell her. And do you know what she said? She acknowledged what had happened, and said, "well, I'm sorry." That was it. "Well, I'm sorry."

I'm sorry too.

I'd made an excuse about having to go do something, just to get her off the phone. Her voice was biting me. She weakly said she'd talk to me in a few days, and we'd have to get together and do something. I don't remember my exact response, but it was something along the lines of, "well, whatever." I'm pretty sure I did say whatever. I brusquely said goodbye, and hung up.

I never called her after that point. She never called me either. I'd like to think that part of it was guilt; that she couldn't face me knowing what she'd done to me. I'd like to think that. But to be honest with you, she's probably too busy having "private conversations" to remember I exist.

That night kicked up a lot of emotions. Part of it is jealousy. I'll admit to that. I hated seeing her in Mike's arms, and part of me wished that it was me that she was holding onto that night, even if it was alcohol induced. I know, I'm not expecting romance from her. But Mike wasn't romance either. Why couldn't it have been me?

Why am I asking myself that question, yet again?

But that was a very small part of it. I wish jealousy was the only part. But nothing is ever that clear cut. So one month later, and past that Sunday phone call, I have not heard from Jennifer at all. I know I won't either. I'm just now beginning to be okay with that.

Well then, if I haven't talked to Jennifer in a month, who is the girl whom I'm having dinner with now? The young lady who sits across from me is named Christine. I met her at work, and we decided to go out for a bite to eat. Same crappy Japanese restaurant, for the record. Some of the features are the same. She's a little shorter than Jennifer, with longer hair. Her legs aren't quite as nice. Cute face though, and a great smile. I wouldn't mind seeing it underneath my covers, or in my shower. As usual, she's been talking about her problems; her troubles finding a boyfriend, how hard school is, whether or not her friends truly like her, y'know, the usual.

"But, I've talked enough for tonight," she says. "What about you? What's going on in your life?"

I look up at her, and smile my careful, gentle, rehearsed smile. "Nothing to talk about."