I was abusing my position by pressing my body to Inger's the was I did, wrapping my left arm around her small body and resting my chin on her right shoulder. My lips touched her earlobes when I moved to talk to her over the Oxes bootleg I was blasting over the P.A. It felt good, but in that wrong kind of way I sometimes get when I know I really shouldn't be behaving in a certain manner, when I know that the feeling is different for the other person involved. Although I could never tell with her; she always looked at me with a practiced coquettishness, enough meaningless encounters wrapped in the irises of her eyes to tell more emotionally overwrought stories than I'll ever fumble my way through here; she either liked me or liked me enough, and that's pretty much all I would get from her if I wanted anything.
She'd invited me to the Roxy for breakfast minutes before, stringing her words together and smiling precisely while two of the males in her company staggered about. At the moment, I'd lost track of the third male, tallest and Brit-accented, which delighted me insofar as it freed me to talk to Inger unmolested. I'd declined, I had to work the next day (the same day, really) and my seemingly impending illness, aggravated by too much cigarette smoke and loud noise, was threatening to combine with my not being in bed to cause problems.
"I'm sorry," I said into her ear, smelling the shampoo and cigarette in her hair and liking it. "Don't buy me breakfast unless you do something to make me hungry the night before. Okay?"
"Okay." Her voice sloped downward, becoming almost a whimper; I knew my turning down her offer wasn't the reason why, but my instantaneous internal detective decided whatever emotion she was experiencing wasn't serious enough to warrant investigation.
She was drunk, after all, as she was when we met, smooth skin and young face on a body that had seen more years than I'd guessed, flirty and aloof and interesting, but only for a while. I'd turned to her on Valentine's day, near-tears and still clinging to the stupid romantic notions I'd had about Melanie, and she'd kissed me, just a simple peck, even less than the one Echo'd given me two days after, but the attention had been enough to affirm me at least for the time it took for me to get home. She was drunk, it seems I rarely saw her when she wasn't, and whether or not her nature while intoxicated bore any resemblance to the real her didn't matter, because I would probably never feel her hands gripping my shoulders or her legs around my hips, nor the warmth of her heart next to mine.
Inger had stepped outside by the time I formally introduced myself to her daughter, pink bra straps over shoulders uncovered by the black fishnet-over-white tanktop and jeans with the suicidal waistline. Brooke held my hand for far too long after I'd finished shaking it; Inger had noticeably emphasized the importance of my neither looking at nor extensively interacting with her, particularly after my half-deaf, half-hoarse rendition of "Hey Ya" that still managed to impress her enough to, as Inger related to me further on in the evening, make her "eyes bug out."
"Darryl," I said simply.
"Brooke," she replied.
"Charmed."
"So," she chuckled, "My mom's hot, isn't she?"
"She's alright," I replied, concerned and slightly irritated; before kissing me two weeks before, Inger had confessed that her daughter wasn't yet 21.
"Well," Brooke continued, still gripping my hand loosely, "Just imagine how hot I'm going to be when I'm her age."
"Actually," I said, "I'm thinking about how hot you are right now."
It could have been horniness, drowsiness, or the pressure imbalance in my sinuses, but I felt her hand weakly attempt to pull me closer. "What's that supposed to mean?" She asked with the same flirtatious nonchalance of her mother.
"Disregard me," I said, letting go of her hand and reaching for the broom. "I'm just flirting with you."
"Flirting. I like flirting."
"I do too. But I'm not good at it."
She started to say something else, but Luke asked me to turn the music down. I happily obliged as Brooke and her taller (but, I later decided, not cuter) friend left. I watched them leave, stealing glances at the skin beneath Brooke's navel and deciding that, in the end, she probably wouldn't remember who I was.
My vision started blurring at the edges by the time I made it to Chopsticks at 2:30. Everyone was there in varying stages of intoxication; Jason looked positively exhausted, which was about how I was feeling. I nudged him into leaving; we were about to step out the door when Clarissa walked up to me.
"Hey, um," she said, "One of these days I'm going to need to talk to you about Melanie--or Rain, or whatever she calls herself."
I shrugged. "I haven't seen her," I said, completely detached at that point.
"Yeah, well," she said, "She's sorta...all over the place, you know?"
"Yeah, I know."
"Yeah," Clarissa smiled, "Well, I just wanted you to know that you shouldn't beat yourself up over that, because you deserve better than that." The words felt good, but I took them with a grain of salt.
Because she was drunk, like Allie was when she kissed me at Hairy Mary's and I realized I loved her much more than April, like Danielle was when we had sex the night she got pregnant, like Jordan was any number of times she called me over to her place and we made awkward, sweaty love in the room next to her daughter, like Melanie was the last time I ever touched her and like Tessa was the first time.
She'd invited me to the Roxy for breakfast minutes before, stringing her words together and smiling precisely while two of the males in her company staggered about. At the moment, I'd lost track of the third male, tallest and Brit-accented, which delighted me insofar as it freed me to talk to Inger unmolested. I'd declined, I had to work the next day (the same day, really) and my seemingly impending illness, aggravated by too much cigarette smoke and loud noise, was threatening to combine with my not being in bed to cause problems.
"I'm sorry," I said into her ear, smelling the shampoo and cigarette in her hair and liking it. "Don't buy me breakfast unless you do something to make me hungry the night before. Okay?"
"Okay." Her voice sloped downward, becoming almost a whimper; I knew my turning down her offer wasn't the reason why, but my instantaneous internal detective decided whatever emotion she was experiencing wasn't serious enough to warrant investigation.
She was drunk, after all, as she was when we met, smooth skin and young face on a body that had seen more years than I'd guessed, flirty and aloof and interesting, but only for a while. I'd turned to her on Valentine's day, near-tears and still clinging to the stupid romantic notions I'd had about Melanie, and she'd kissed me, just a simple peck, even less than the one Echo'd given me two days after, but the attention had been enough to affirm me at least for the time it took for me to get home. She was drunk, it seems I rarely saw her when she wasn't, and whether or not her nature while intoxicated bore any resemblance to the real her didn't matter, because I would probably never feel her hands gripping my shoulders or her legs around my hips, nor the warmth of her heart next to mine.
Inger had stepped outside by the time I formally introduced myself to her daughter, pink bra straps over shoulders uncovered by the black fishnet-over-white tanktop and jeans with the suicidal waistline. Brooke held my hand for far too long after I'd finished shaking it; Inger had noticeably emphasized the importance of my neither looking at nor extensively interacting with her, particularly after my half-deaf, half-hoarse rendition of "Hey Ya" that still managed to impress her enough to, as Inger related to me further on in the evening, make her "eyes bug out."
"Darryl," I said simply.
"Brooke," she replied.
"Charmed."
"So," she chuckled, "My mom's hot, isn't she?"
"She's alright," I replied, concerned and slightly irritated; before kissing me two weeks before, Inger had confessed that her daughter wasn't yet 21.
"Well," Brooke continued, still gripping my hand loosely, "Just imagine how hot I'm going to be when I'm her age."
"Actually," I said, "I'm thinking about how hot you are right now."
It could have been horniness, drowsiness, or the pressure imbalance in my sinuses, but I felt her hand weakly attempt to pull me closer. "What's that supposed to mean?" She asked with the same flirtatious nonchalance of her mother.
"Disregard me," I said, letting go of her hand and reaching for the broom. "I'm just flirting with you."
"Flirting. I like flirting."
"I do too. But I'm not good at it."
She started to say something else, but Luke asked me to turn the music down. I happily obliged as Brooke and her taller (but, I later decided, not cuter) friend left. I watched them leave, stealing glances at the skin beneath Brooke's navel and deciding that, in the end, she probably wouldn't remember who I was.
My vision started blurring at the edges by the time I made it to Chopsticks at 2:30. Everyone was there in varying stages of intoxication; Jason looked positively exhausted, which was about how I was feeling. I nudged him into leaving; we were about to step out the door when Clarissa walked up to me.
"Hey, um," she said, "One of these days I'm going to need to talk to you about Melanie--or Rain, or whatever she calls herself."
I shrugged. "I haven't seen her," I said, completely detached at that point.
"Yeah, well," she said, "She's sorta...all over the place, you know?"
"Yeah, I know."
"Yeah," Clarissa smiled, "Well, I just wanted you to know that you shouldn't beat yourself up over that, because you deserve better than that." The words felt good, but I took them with a grain of salt.
Because she was drunk, like Allie was when she kissed me at Hairy Mary's and I realized I loved her much more than April, like Danielle was when we had sex the night she got pregnant, like Jordan was any number of times she called me over to her place and we made awkward, sweaty love in the room next to her daughter, like Melanie was the last time I ever touched her and like Tessa was the first time.