DAY 15.

I know I skipped a day… I know. I’ll make up for it with a double post another time.

The keys are still in the ignition. The door is locked. It doesn’t help that they’re all staring from the steps of the porch. All those people that she knows and doesn’t know. A cloud of smoke billows out of the house as the front door opens. If she didn’t know better, she’d think there was a fire happening. They’re all too calm for it to be a fire. People just really enjoy their cigarettes, their pot. Everyone is wearing too much eyeliner. Too much black.

The car’s engine is rumbling. She leans against the front door, head against the top of the car. The feeling of shame is creeping up her spine. It’s enveloping her entire body. This was the last thing she needed tonight. She’s suddenly exhausted.

The count for the evening has been three beers. They’ve more than worn off by now. That’s what she got for suggesting to be the designated driver. This party is the worst she’s ever been to. Someone suggests calling Triple A. They won’t take her card. Of course they won’t. She’s out of state.

The host of the party saunters over, his orange tie glowing in the darkness.

“What idiot locks their keys in their car when it’s still on?” he asks. She’s never met him before. She’d love to punch him in the face.

The tow truck does come, eventually. He’s the nicest person at the party. He makes polite conversation, delivers her an anecdote of when he did the same thing with his car. He got a bottle of wine out of that night from the people he was stranded with. He backs up his truck and is gone. The one person here who is normal.

The party is in full force. Everything feels over-dressed. There are two people at this party that can count as stupid decisions. Neither of them are acting the way they acted with her before. One looks at her but doesn’t talk. He says hello and disappears, chasing after other girls at this party. A feeling of indifference settles over her. He was never worth it. Not for a second. Not even close.

She knows she shouldn’t be upset. She knows that people do this all the time. That definition of casual. Of not being on the same page. Of wanting different things. Of having fun. Of a fleeting moment.

She doesn’t want another drink. She wants the other boy dressed in all black, with his eyeliner and his Newcastle Ale. She wants him the way he was only a night before. When things were better. When he was himself.

She sits on the back porch, away from the theatrics of the night. Her friend is by her side, equally miserable for altogether different reasons. They don’t understand why they’re here. They hate this night. This always happens for them and there is no explanation as to why.

She’s glad her car is back to working order. A quick get-away has always appealed to her. Her and her friend, they leave behind the house. They leave behind the fake happiness, the drunken conversations, the feelings of being ignored. They have no reasons to stay.

DAY 04.

The world has gone to bed but they’re still awake, eyes wide open.

The back patio overlooks a line of apartments. Every light is off in every window. There is an illusion of privacy. Not a sound can be heard. He packs the bowl in a methodical way and makes suggestive conversation. This is nothing new. This was expected.

She eases back in her chair and shivers. A cool breeze tickles her face. She wishes she had worn a sweater. He’s saying things to her that feel out of place. She’s almost certain he’s used these lines on others before her. A star-filled sky stretches out over the tops of the other apartments in the complex. He lights the coal with a flick of his lighter. His face bursts into clear view in the darkness.

“I’m only staying for a little,” she says as he passes her the hose. He smirks at her like he assumes that’s a lie. He might be right.

Inhalation.

A smoky, sweet vanilla rush invades her lungs. She holds it there and then lets it out, watching the smoke rise in puffs above her. She passes him the hose and tries not to notice the way his fingers linger on hers as their hands brush.

“I’m going to die alone,” he says, taking a pull from the hookah himself. She stays in her seat and feigns sympathy just this once.

He blows smoke rings and hands her back the hose. She inhales again, longer this time. A slight buzz is overtaking her and she closes her eyes. Her body feels lighter than usual. If she wanted to, maybe she could fly. She opens her eyes and he’s out of his seat. He’s crouched in front of her and it is then, when his cheek presses against hers, that she remembers why she might be here.

He says the things that hold more promise in the dark. The things she wants so desperately to believe. His hand traces over her skin like he cares. Like he wants her. His lips on her neck feel like distrust. Like broken promises. Like rebellion. She grips the arm-chairs. She doesn’t budge. His fingers tangle in her hair. It feels like something forbidden.

“Are you lightheaded yet?” he asks.

They kiss. They smoke more. He suggests she stay.

“Just to watch a movie,” he assures. She knows better.

His apartment is empty. No furniture, no people, just vacant rooms waiting to be lived in. The movie is turned on and then turned off. She feels like a ghost, drifting in and out of what is happening in the here and now and what she remembers from months before. When it was a different person, a different body, a different bed. When it was love.

But there is no bed here. There is nothing but a blanket, a living room floor. Her heart remains in pieces on the tiles of the kitchen. Her self-respect has disappeared into an abandoned closet. He got what he wanted. She got what she thought she wanted.

But this was not what she needed.