By Victoria Wacik
“So, do you need me to go soon?” I ask as I struggle to light my cigarette with your well-used pink lighter. American Spirits, turquoise pack, both of our favorite. It’s after round one, and we’ve assumed our spots in lawn chairs. The sleazy hot tub lurks in the corner of the yard, taunting us. I chip away at cement to talk to you but you dried months ago. I uncross my legs, the cold night kissing where my skin peaks out of my ripped jeans. You kill your cigarette before it reaches the filter.
I lie on your bed oh-so-casually, trying to look like the girls in the posters on your walls. Sensual, reserved. You’re preoccupied, breathing from a glass snake and playing a Nirvana song that surrounds us like barbed wire. The walls are closing in. Looking at me through low eyelids, you gently pull me closer to you. I love you, I’m not gonna crack
Shortly after I arrive, I’m standing by your unmade bed and trashcan filled with shittty empty beer cans, wearing an outfit that makes me look like a tempting treat. I am your favorite chocolatey indulgence. I come to you in cravings, where you devour me, quickly. Once you decide you’re finished, you put me in the back of the cabinet until the next time you’re in the mood.
Remember the night we met? We sucked beer cans down like mosquitoes do blood and went skinny dipping, and you winked at me through blurred vision on the balcony while we smoked. I needed a lighter. “Oh my god, you like the blue American Spirits too?! No way, I totally fuck with those!!”
“Yeah, it’s cool if you chill here,” you say, but I think about ashing my cigarette on my arm again to regain your gaze that runs away after we leave your room.
The miniature reese’s cups in the bowl beckon me, a pool I dive into. I’m distracted. I have that new phone everyone wants. I’m distracted. iCarly plays. I’m distracted.
I don’t like being tickled but supposedly I used to, according to you. It hurts me now but you don’t stop even when I say so. Knowing that word now means nothing is slipping, falling, no ground to catch me.
I’m annoyed and you leave me alone. I’m distracted.
You’re hunched over as you carry the dark glass into the bathroom and I don’t know what to do so I hide in the other bathroom and call my mom and that was the first time I rode in the back of a police car.