I decided to be lazy and neglect things. So I made this. This, which I don't know what is, but I think it turned out pretty okay for a draft.



The night is dark and cold and wet, made of neon and lust and bright lights and prostitutes. Under the moon's watchful eyes people sing and dace and drink in crowded pubs, stumble away and fuck in alleys, fall asleep, unconscious, and then wake up, memories gone and return, stumbling headlong into their daily lives with another disease sleeping dormant in the body.

She is made of alcohol and lust and dizzy and need. She orders her ninth glass of beer, head spinny-spinny, drunk enough to entertain the thought of going home with the next guy to walk alone through the door. She finds the thought appealing, but when she gazes at the door, still spinny dizzy-dizzy, all she sees is blond-blond hair and gray-gray eyes.

She sinks into the seat, boneless tired, reaching for the glass put in front of her. It disappears and she glares, sitting up and swaying on the seat as he slips into the chair beside her.

"Go home. 'S not a place for people like you here." She lays on the counter, blowing black-black bangs out of her eyes. "Are you here to teach me better drinking habits or to drag me home or why else would you be invading my space?" She pauses, thinks. "Hand back the beer."

He does and she downs it, shoves it down her throat in one big gulp. "So?" she prompts, shaky-shaky.

"Can't I just come here because I want to see you?" he asks and she laughs. He laughs, too, but it's as shaky as she feels.

"No." She orders another beer and turns to face him, smug and pleased. "This isn't Hollywood. 'S reality."

He shrugs, steals her new glass and downs it himself. "Whatever. I think I'm still allowed to miss you, regardless." Pause. "You want me to go?"

She doesn't answer and he doesn't leave.


Three beers later and the night is just as dark and cold and bright. She stumbles down the street and he tries to help her walk in a straight line. Hand on her shoulder and she stumbles anyway.

She complains ("water sobers me up") and he doubts ("of course it does"). Three blocks and the rain is heavy-heavy, takes away the smell of alcohol and cold.

"Hey." She rips him from his train on thought.

"Mhmm?" he hums and she stops walking, framed by alley and dark.

"I'm gonna puke."


The alley, just as dark as the rest of the night. She heaves, stomach turning inside-out. He doesn't want to look, tries not to, holding her up and her hair away.

Former consumed beer splashes on the dark pavement. Ew, ew, it stinks, it stinks.

She leans against the wall, head turned towards the sky, patter-patter rain on skin. "I don't think I can walk another step." She breaths heavy air and exhales puffs of breath.

"Hm." He hums with a grin as she slides down and he slides after, knees in his throat, leaning against her. She hums and he chuckles. "Silly."

"I'm drunk. I'm allowed to be."

He hums again and she falls silent. Patter-patter rain keeps falling and he holds back a shiver.

"Kiss me." She says but doesn't turn to him. Happy-happy dizzy-dizzy she looks up at the skywhere the rain keeps falling patter-patter.


She turns to him. Eyebrow raised, mouth drawn, patter-patter rain on skin muted by hair. "Because. I'm drunk and needy. Since when do you need a good reason for kissing?" She slurs and he laughs.

"Silly." He leans to press his lips to hers. She slips her arms around him because butterfly kisses just won't do. She presses closer and he presses away so she presses closer yet. He isn't surprised, doesn't mind, slips his tongue across her lips and she opens up with a gasp and moan.

She's on top of him and he doesn't mind. They're both cold and hot and needy yet neither makes the move to go from kissing, hot and heavy, to sex, hotter and heavier. So it stays, just like that. They're both tangled, entangled in each other and it's warm and the patter-patter of rain moves away and it's suddenly quiet.

Daylight breaks and they're still tangled, warm-warm and dizzy-dizzy. Light flickers across her face and he mumbles "Good morning" into her hair.

She grunts and is up again, shaky-shakyand out of the alley smelling on semi-digested beer and rain. Morning on a Friday, cloudy and gray, time to get home, get showered, get dressed. Get going.

"We're pretending that this never happened."

"Hey," he calls and she turns and doesn't speak. "I don't wanna wanna give you up." He sings and she flushes red around the edges. He smiles and she looks away.

"There's too much alcohol and Hollywood in that brain of yours."

"We could make it work," he says, small-small and shaky-shaky. He hesitates and she shakes her head (don't do that dizzy-dizzy).

"Sorry. But I'd have to be drunk all the time for this to work."

She turns away, walks one way and he goes the other, back to neon and lust and bright lights and prostitutes. Easy life, easy-easy.

"I don't wanna wanna give you up."


Read and Review? Criticisms appreciated.