He paced the room. He walked, hurridly, back to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and all his insecurities stared back at him. The scar across the bridge of his nose, almost too faint to see, the scar on his forehead where he had been bashed with a hammer, how his teeth weren't as straight or white as they should be, he'd been drinking too much and putting on weight again. Atleast his clothes looked good. He wore a vintage Misfits t-shirt over a military thermal. He wore designer jeans and DC sneakers, he hadn't been on a skateboard in years. He brushed his teeth again and heard the album spinning in his room end. Back to the room to flip the record, to pace. He unscrewed the bottle of Sailor Jerry and took another long pull. It tasted sour with the toothpaste still in his mouth. His phone vibrated it was time to go.
He picked her up in his truck. He hadn't bothered to clean it out. She sat in the passenger seat her feet cramped because of the trash, coffee cups and blunt tubes, and the massive bottle of vodka he bought, per her request. The bar he had wanted to take her to, a small but hip martini bar with a great chai martini, was packed. They decided on another bar and walked down the street to the next one, he would later write a song about the night. The bar was less crowded but full of people he knew, or had known. These people didn't know him anymore. People that made him uncomfortable. People that had known him when he'd shown promise. They finished their drinks and headed back to his house.
Things he realized between the bar and his house: This girl looked like she was about 17. This excited him more than creeped him out. Every guy in both bars wouldn't take their eyes off of her. There was a chance she actually wanted him. There was the lingering fact he was awaiting the results of an HIV test. There was an unopened bottle of vodka. He had half a joint in the ashtray of the truck. He wanted to smoke the joint. He wanted to guzzle the vodka. He wanted this girl badly. She was looking at him. She had never made any mention of going to pick up her car. She was planning on staying the night. He wanted this girl badly.
They headed up to his room and put a dvd on. He had the cap off the bottle of vodka before she had her jacket off. He had their drinks poured before she sat down. The dvd was just background noise. They talked. For hours they talked. The bottle of vodka became lighter and lighter. They talked and talked. They stumbled down the stairs and outside to smoke cigarettes. They stay in the truck, the air thick with the smoke from the menthols. He smoked too fast, two packs a day. And when he finished he instinctivley took up the joint and lit it. Her face, in the smokey glow of the lighter, was surreal. She smiled sweetly as he passed her the joint and she refused. She watched him taking hits from the joint. He closed his eyes as he took the last hit and held it in.
When he opened his eyes he caught her. The smile, it was back. She averted her eyes quickly, and if there had been any light he would have seen her blushing. If he'd kept his eyes closed a second more she'd have stayed a sexual object, mythic and untouchable (if not untouchable impossible to hold onto). He would have maybe tried fucking her when they went back inside. But he opened his goddamn eyes. He saw a smile that would make him fall out of lust and into love.
He picked her up in his truck. He hadn't bothered to clean it out. She sat in the passenger seat her feet cramped because of the trash, coffee cups and blunt tubes, and the massive bottle of vodka he bought, per her request. The bar he had wanted to take her to, a small but hip martini bar with a great chai martini, was packed. They decided on another bar and walked down the street to the next one, he would later write a song about the night. The bar was less crowded but full of people he knew, or had known. These people didn't know him anymore. People that made him uncomfortable. People that had known him when he'd shown promise. They finished their drinks and headed back to his house.
Things he realized between the bar and his house: This girl looked like she was about 17. This excited him more than creeped him out. Every guy in both bars wouldn't take their eyes off of her. There was a chance she actually wanted him. There was the lingering fact he was awaiting the results of an HIV test. There was an unopened bottle of vodka. He had half a joint in the ashtray of the truck. He wanted to smoke the joint. He wanted to guzzle the vodka. He wanted this girl badly. She was looking at him. She had never made any mention of going to pick up her car. She was planning on staying the night. He wanted this girl badly.
They headed up to his room and put a dvd on. He had the cap off the bottle of vodka before she had her jacket off. He had their drinks poured before she sat down. The dvd was just background noise. They talked. For hours they talked. The bottle of vodka became lighter and lighter. They talked and talked. They stumbled down the stairs and outside to smoke cigarettes. They stay in the truck, the air thick with the smoke from the menthols. He smoked too fast, two packs a day. And when he finished he instinctivley took up the joint and lit it. Her face, in the smokey glow of the lighter, was surreal. She smiled sweetly as he passed her the joint and she refused. She watched him taking hits from the joint. He closed his eyes as he took the last hit and held it in.
When he opened his eyes he caught her. The smile, it was back. She averted her eyes quickly, and if there had been any light he would have seen her blushing. If he'd kept his eyes closed a second more she'd have stayed a sexual object, mythic and untouchable (if not untouchable impossible to hold onto). He would have maybe tried fucking her when they went back inside. But he opened his goddamn eyes. He saw a smile that would make him fall out of lust and into love.
I'm kidding.
And I really like this entry too.