She crunched on a starlight mint and each sugary, sweet, bite, burst like a firework in her mouth. The drugs had hit her quickly. Soon every breath would be bliss. Every touch, electric. Her eyes would twitch uncontrollably, in a manner that only looked like sex.
Hours later we would be huddled under a blanket, shivering, desperate for the last great yelp in an ever sun-bleached world. In that stage she would ask if we would hate each other in the morning. Would we somehow change away from the beautiful creatures we had become. We promised each other that we'd remember the love that we could finally admit and clutched each other as the earth slammed underneath.
But we didn't hate each other in the morning. We were drained, tired and irritable. At our worst we held each other's hand, drank our water and tried to hold back the urge to vomit. We were despicable beasts, moody and dark, soaked in sweat and stinking of the damp.
In archaic scribble, red marker dragged across a napkin. With every turn, the brief grip of friction slowed the tip until the force of a pressing hand overcame its hold. 7 numbers.
One week later we didn't hate each other. We sat at a coffee shop table. We didn't talk much so much as chuckle at a magazine, thumbing over the exclamation points. I'd stare down her shirt to catch a glimpse of her round breasts cupped by a black bra. She'd catch me and I'd feel her heart race a little.
One year later we didn't hate each other. We made love in her parents basement in front of a big screen rear projection TV after Thanksgiving dinner.
It would be almost 3 years before we'd feel hate towards each other. 3 and a half before we'd say it. She'd say it first, and I'd be unconvinced. I'd echo it back and mean it. The earth slammed underneath.
Hours later we would be huddled under a blanket, shivering, desperate for the last great yelp in an ever sun-bleached world. In that stage she would ask if we would hate each other in the morning. Would we somehow change away from the beautiful creatures we had become. We promised each other that we'd remember the love that we could finally admit and clutched each other as the earth slammed underneath.
But we didn't hate each other in the morning. We were drained, tired and irritable. At our worst we held each other's hand, drank our water and tried to hold back the urge to vomit. We were despicable beasts, moody and dark, soaked in sweat and stinking of the damp.
In archaic scribble, red marker dragged across a napkin. With every turn, the brief grip of friction slowed the tip until the force of a pressing hand overcame its hold. 7 numbers.
One week later we didn't hate each other. We sat at a coffee shop table. We didn't talk much so much as chuckle at a magazine, thumbing over the exclamation points. I'd stare down her shirt to catch a glimpse of her round breasts cupped by a black bra. She'd catch me and I'd feel her heart race a little.
One year later we didn't hate each other. We made love in her parents basement in front of a big screen rear projection TV after Thanksgiving dinner.
It would be almost 3 years before we'd feel hate towards each other. 3 and a half before we'd say it. She'd say it first, and I'd be unconvinced. I'd echo it back and mean it. The earth slammed underneath.
cherrylix:
Wow...
aphasiac:
This is breathtaking.