Apology: this story needs explaining. It is about a boy and a girl at a keg party in the forest around a bonfire; however, it's written in Virginia- Woolf-style stream-of-consciousness writing. The characters, Flavinda and Valentine, are two characters Woolf made up in "Between the Acts." Flavinda was a good girl that fell in love with Valentine, who loved her, but was a big fat player.

Step. Step. Step
Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Flavinda comes. I pump the tap up and down.
Flavinda comes, I can hear her slow, symphonic footsteps. I can hear her hands in her pockets. I hear the thorns scratching her skin in the dark.
Flavinda comes.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Almost there. Almost to Valentine, who is pumping and filling his cup. Pumping and laughing. Closing his eyes, mouth open, chin back. One hand in his pocket, one hand around a sticky cup. Valentine is always happy. Valentine doesn't need me.
A new breeze signals her arrival. Hair stands on end as she parts the last bush and arrives. In the dark she is a ghost, a specter. A child bride and a siren with a blurry outline, joining the ring around the fire.
A circle populated by mourners, I enter. They're all crying because only one will win, only one will sleep in Valentine's tent tonight. That is Valentine - laughing. Persuasive. Confident. experienced. He knows I'm here and does not look over his shoulder.
The circle sways. The fire reaches higher. There is a graceful exchange of chair occupants, dancers unchoreographed. Flavinda traces the dirt with her toes as she walks. Puts a sticky cup in her hand. Sits down and crosses her legs in slow motion. Leans forward, leans back. Partners next to her exchange. Her voice is no lullaby, it is an unapologetic mirror.
One partner. On the left. She leans in.
New partner. On the right. She crosses her legs towards him.
Her cup is empty. Valentine is gone.
I will pretend to be engrossed in what you're saying, Mr. Right. I did not come here for him, just as he did not come here for me.
Turning over my right shoulder, I catch Flavinda's lean. Offensive, absorbed. There is no better listener, no meaner person. Her dark figure is still, it laughs, it shakes its fist in the air, it leans in further. I can watch her as long as I like. She will make a face at me if she catches me.
Crickle. Crackle. Pop.
Branches and bushes reluctantly part. Mr. Left doesn't like my company that much. But I like him. I will grow on him. I'm hard at first, throwing my morbidity instantly into nice-to-meet-you's. Let us agree on the selfishness of humanity from the get-go. Only in realizing we only love ourselves can we have any semblance of friendship. Mr. Left just wants to laugh. As do I, but at different things. Come on, Left, show me a place I can pee in peace. Then I will go home. I came here for Valentine and he is busy.
Somewhere, Valentine laughs with his arm around someone's waist. Behind some tree, another candidate kisses him. Flavinda squats in bushes, appreciating the moon.
There was a time when I'd watch her breathe. I'd watch her snore. I'd run my index finger along her clavicle and memorize the temperature of her skin. I smelled her hair. A lot. She always smelled like happiness, in clothes she'd worn a week straight. Flowers. Picking them. Giving them. Lifting my arm over her head and forcing me into a ballroom dance.
Punching someone in the face. Fighting. Being a whore. I pick the heads of violets and throw them angrily. They don't go far. Telling me I was special. Holding my hand. Running toward me, picking me up, spinning me. His lies smell like vomit and infect the air. The mourners lick it up. Valentine.
I at least have to say goodbye before I go. Why?
"Goodbye, Valentine."
"Goodbye, Flavinda. Till we meet again."