a/n: i don't know what it is. bar conversation. too much Lolita.
"I miss the old school punks! you know you know, the kind that used to tuck their shirts in!" she thrusts a long hand down her pants and stuffs the front of her shirt into her jeans.
"I mean, come on! he looked like every punk I've ever seen, and ever will see!" all arms and legs now, she twists around the room like mad strobe lights.
"he wasn't different!" the alcohol in her hands sloshes out over the table. cranberry vodka. until one of them ran dry; cranberry vodka until she couldn't see straight.
"that's why I've decided!" all arms and legs this girl, I swear!
another toss goes down her throat, another on the table. "that's why I've decided, not to get over him!" she shouts, curls falling all around her.
"wait, what?" Mikes head bobs keenly in the air.
"set your head back down!" she bellows at Mike.
grind faced, he lets his soft blondness spills back out onto his arms and around the liquor stained table of RJ's.
"I've decided not to get over him. I'm not going to stop feeling like this, because I'm going to replace him."
I can't stop the bumbling laughter that emits from me. old from cigarettes and scotch, I make a devil of myself.
red faced she throws the last of her drink into her gullet.
"shut up! all the punks! all the mohawks and 'misfits' stickers, big black boots, they're all the goddamn same! he looks just like the rest of them!" a sharp mass in her chest falls, and large a cracking sound ensues. "I don't have to stop."
she takes another drink. with her other hand she twists and chunk of curls up by her shoulder.
"don't have to stop what?" tell me beautiful girl.
"I don't have to stop…" she swallows.
her drink is empty, the cherry red tint to her lips starts to fade. she is a plastic doll in the sun tonight.
"don't have to stop what?" I ask again.
she slips herself back into a chair and slams her fist down on the table for another drink. an empty shot glass in front of me tilts and falls.
she doesn't talk until another drink shows up in front of her, and she's downed at least a third. she takes a moment to finger the little red straw laying awkwardly in her glass.
"what was I saying?" she blows some curls out of her face.
"you don't have to stop." the words are old now, I'm to drunk to say it again.
"oh yeah, see. I don't have to stop, caring about him. he doesn't have to call.. anymore. because I'm just going to replace him. with another punk from, school or the subway or something…"
I don't laugh this time.
"you liked him a lot, didn't you?"
"you drink to much."
"to love?" she lifts up her glass and stretches it over to me.
mike, like a man coming to life, lifts his lukewarm drink into the air, just barely lifting his head a foot off the table. "to love."
a fear drowns me in a moment, as my brain releases words out of my mouth, as a drunken whisper.
"to love." I say.
the cups click lively with each other, as we down the last of their contents.