The Remote (G)



He sprawled on the couch watching the TV. "Shit!" He stabbed the remote control stopping the VCR. Why was he watching this crap? He wasn’t 15 anymore. He didn’t even have to be home. There were women he could call that would enjoy being with him, maybe more. It’s not like he had to pay for it, for Christ’s sake.

So why wasn’t he out there? Now. It wasn’t that late, he could…hell, get honest. He had that doctorate in psychology. Couldn’t he at least be honest with himself? He wasn’t going anywhere.

There was a woman in this life. The one he wanted, damn it. The only one he wanted. So he could do something about that. Hell, he’d had guns pointed in his face, faced down aliens, been shot – so why was he so afraid of her?

He could go over there right now. It wasn’t that late. He could just show up, and just tell her straight out how he felt. She’d have to listen – what was the worst she could do? Laugh?

He was on his feet; he actually grabbed his jacket. He stopped at the door. Why not go? Because celibacy was better than rejection from his redhead. He slammed the jacket back on the eight ball and flopped back down on the couch. In a few minutes he reached for the remote. Shit.