I was thinking about his hands and how cold mine were, and then I realized I was just watching a rerun of CSI: Miami. But they were really soft in the park in the sun as we drank unemployment away. That didn’t last long.
“You’re really hard to get a hold of,” I said. He shrugged. “The past two weeks have been so busy.” I called a baby an asshole; he told his friends we had sex. Neither was true, but I laughed anyway because our collective dickishness seemed charming for some reason.
I got sick of it and dragged us to another bar, one where we didn’t have to sit outside and wonder who might pass. Secondhand smoke entered my nostrils. I wanted a cigarette but didn’t say anything. I wanted more to drink but didn’t want to come off like a lush. I wanted some drugs, but that’s always the way. I told him about a dream I had, but he was on the phone.
“What do you want?”
“I am NOT getting you an orange juice. You need a drink.”
“Ugh, but I really want orange juice.”
“Too bad. I am the one with the money right now.”
“Fine. Miller High Life, or PBR, I guess.”
He needed a drink to calm the fuck down. So I brought the cold can back to the table by the door and dragged him over to the jukebox. I still wanted him, needed him to want me. So I let him pick some jams, and then I picked a few. He drank less than half of his PBR. I didn’t argue; the stuff is vile. We left just as our songs started.
The next bar was all sweat and bodies and beautiful, freaky dance stench. I wasn’t dressed for it. Neither was anyone else. I tore off some clothes and tried to make the best of it. Sometimes I dance and lose my balance. Sometimes a clueless fuck stomps on my foot. But I sweat balls and persevere, and sometimes I think I look sexy. I needed more drinks but was out of cash.
Somehow he ended up at my house eating an apple and my pussy, tucking me in, apologizing, and leaving out the back. My brain and my body buzzed for hours.