A boy with a backpack is almost always to be trusted.
We sat on the bench for the bus and contemplated wrongdoing. Except there are no buses running during this desolate time of night. Or day. Morning, actually. I finally escape our fantasy and look around. The sky looks like a water color and your head is in your hands:
“I’m so sorry. I feel awful. I’m awful.”
Here’s what happens: it’s almost impossible to deny myself of The Other Woman quality I must inherently possess. I guess it’s not a quality. More of a set back.
Except I’m so good at it. I should get paid for it.
Dedicated to continuous screwing over relationships and pretty much everyone involved – – Bilingual in English and French with the devious ability to use my french as petty bait – Detail-oriented. Very detail-oriented – Strong social skills, inviting glances, and social media skills which would aid in the process of never being found out – A great lower back and a keen knowledge concerning how to accurately present it – Ability to multitask in a high-adrenaline and heavy-breathing environment – Good kisser. At least I’d like to think so.
I’m dripping sex. You say it yourself when I suggested being friends and talking about philosophical things because do remember that even though I’m dripping sex, I’m actually like, smart. This is what we discussed. This is what we talked about before we stopped talking. Somewhere in between showing me your kitchen and me making the obligatory useless exclamation and the stern reproach of your couch. You’re a doctor, I say. Check me out.
The problem here is that we’ve done this before. We apparently have not learned. Well, maybe we just don’t want to.
It was the time I would come to remember as The Time. I played it over and over again in my heard on Christmas Eve, not caring about presents and only sending out wishes to Santa for more midnight back seat specials.. If this were some cliché late-90s drama with Diane Lane and Good Looking Lead who’s cheating on his wife, then we’ve hit the spot. Literally shoving me up against walls and car doors , the air heavy with We Shouldn’t Do This and utterances about guilt as if saying it makes us “aware” and so therefore it’s okay. You love your girlfriend. Yeah well don’t we all.
A train goes by. I step on broken glass. Overheard inebriated giggles and hollers grate against your groans . Exhilarated, I think that this is what they were talking about concerning “your 20s.”
However we cannot keep doing that “because we know this is wrong” thing and keep going. We knew where this was going. You and me both. We knew this night would end against some brick wall. Hard. And then we laughingly mentioned The Time – “Well that was pretty crazy, huh!” – which is also known as a clever little literary device called foreshadowing.
The sad part is I’m not caring as much as I probably should. I just want you and I want you now.
To be continued …
Herewith : Cynthia’s possible explanation as to why this tends to occur. Now go make out with Jonathan Rhys Meyers in a field in the rain and make it sexy.