Monday, January 17, 2011

emily

We get to your place around midnight. The tires screech to a stop and we slam our doors while giggling like the bastards we are. You can't find her keys at first and as we stand there in our short skirts and glowing bracelets, we curs and stamp our feet on the frozen ground, like horses neighing in irritation. You find them, fumble, and finally open the door. We stumble into the apartment and fall down onto the floor, pressing our lips to the ratted carpet like we have just found land again. Laughing, we roll onto our backs and stare up at the cracked ceiling while listening to the upstairs neighbours having sex.

I've started a noise war with them. I turn my music up as loud as it will go so the walls reverberate. Don't think it's working though.
I smile. I roll over onto my stomach and stalk my prey...the bong. Eyes narrow, fingers cramp, butt in the air...I am a tiger, a feline predator, ready for the pounce, thirsting for the kill. Thirsting for blood.

Dude, what the fuck are you doing?

Ssssh. Stalking my prey.

You roll your eyes. Whatever. Pick up the bong and deprive me of my fun. I sigh and turn around while you reach for your bag. Close my eyes for a second, open them again, and you're lighting it up.

Want a hit?

Nah, I'm fine.

Suit yourself.
Lay on your back. We start talking. 'Bout books, 'bout life, 'bout everything. I like listening to you talk. You ramble on about Russian authors and French existentialism, Warhol philosophy and modern art. I voice my opinions, but mine are nothing compared to your vast library of knowledge.

I feel like I'm in a Woody Allen movie. You're Woody Allen. I laugh frequently while you talk and my eyes cross over to your bookshelf, filled to the brim with books. I see a little container of blue fluid. I slowly get up and walk across the room to investigate.

Your fish seems to be dead.

Yeah, I know. That's Frisky. I bought him like that.

You bought a dead fish?

I hear a laugh behind me. Yeah.

I sit back on the floor, watching you. I stare at your eyes, nose, mouth. Your incredibly tiny ears. Your piano fingers, holding a glass of wine. Mouth slightly open.

I think I'll take a hit.

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