Till the World Ends

A cigarette dangled gracelessly from her mouth as she looked up towards the sky. "You think it's really gonna happen?" she asks, a veneer of nonchalance sturdily placed over the part of her that was wailing to live on.

He shrugs, shoulders slightly stiff. "Who knows, says we have to wait for the planets to line up in the sky or some fucked up shit like that." This elicits a chortle from her, causing the cigarette to almost fall out from between her lips and sizzle his bicep. "Ah, careful!" He barks out in an alarmed tone. "Aren't you supposed to leave, anyways?"

"Honey, I'm a rebel bitch. If society says I'm supposed to pray for repentance and up and leave while covering my lady-parts with a fannypack of innocence, I'm going to live in your basement and eat every fucking piece of cereal in your cupboard…every morning." She pauses to waggle her eyebrows and slowly looks down. Thumbing the material against her skin she continues, "Oh, and I'll keep stealing all your shirts. This stuff is cotton heaven!"

"S'all branded, love," he says cockily. She nuzzles a little closer to him, body pressed flush against his arm. He raises an eyebrow at her. "Another round?"

"Bah, you wish! You aren't that good. Hey, if the world really ends tonight, wouldn't you wanna be with someone you honestly give a shit about as we speak?" At this, he raises him head on the palm of his hand and stares down at her, observing every nook and cranny of her face. In plain sight, it wouldn't be anything remarkable—a crooked nose with a tip too fleshy, blunt lashes and a lower lip much bigger than the upper.

But damn, he thought, if he was Leonardo da Vinci he'd draw the shit out of this girl and not carry it to the bathroom like a Playboy magazine.

"Well, 'giving a shit' can be a relative term. I 'gave a shit' to my ex-girlfriend—still do, I guess, bitch made sure my cardiac system never worked the same way again—but that doesn't mean I'd like to spend my last night on earth with her. You, on the other hand, are sweet company. We fuck like bunnies and talk like psychotic patient and therapist. It's optimal."

She is a little bit baffled. He was always candid; hell, so was she. Never though, did he even hint at the fact he liked spending time with her in any way without any of his appendages locked within her. This was of cosmic proportions; maybe the world really was ending tonight.

"Are you saying you like spending time with me? Oh shit, maybe you're in love with me! Hah!" He winced. "Dude, if the world doesn't end tonight, you're soooo fucked!" She was like a little kid who had discovered candy. Beneath the taunting and the mischief, though,

Please let it be true. Wishful thinking, but please, just let it be true.

"I don't love, cherrybomb," he said simply, maintaining a stoic expression while falling back on his pillow and turning away from her a little bit.

"Says the guy who's obviously pussy-whipped, sugartits," she retorted. There was an uncomfortable silence. Suddenly feeling suffocated by the tension, she decided the cigarette smoke wasn't really helping much. She took the offending cylinder out of her mouth and flicked it against the ashtray a little too forcefully. "How are your things with your parents?" He lets out a loud derisive laugh at that, which almost makes her jump and fall out of the twin-sized bed. "I can't believe you have a twin-sized bed on your roof." She scrunches her nose.

"Bitches love seeing stars while they get starry-eyed as they come."

"Cute. Bitches also love having their questions answered. How are things with your parents?"

"I don't know. Screwed up, as usual. Mother keeps wading in a sea of alcohol and I have to keep telling her that he's not coming back. Just doesn't believe me…" he sighs and turns to fiddle with the strands of her hair. "How long haven't you shampooed, woman? Your head could end the war for oil reserves!"

"Sorry that I sometimes get too busy because I have a job, Tim Gunn," she rolls her eyes at him.

"Please wash them. I like running my fingers through your hair and I'd rather prefer I didn't end up with permanently oily digits."

"Why? It'd help the next time you were using your…fingers. Something up there knows you could use the lubrication since you can't excite enough," she sticks her tongue out at him. He lets out a deep laughter that rumbles through the night.

"You're such a bitch. But, what's ironic is that you and I both know how untrue that is," he tweaks her nose, feeling a sick strange surge of affection. "How are things at home for you?" he whispers tentatively, as if leaving all the doors for her to run out of screaming like a banshee if the question was too loaded.

"The beatings stopped a long time back, y'know? But it hurts," she concentrates on twiddling her thumb, carefully avoiding eye contact with him. So much for avoiding contact, she thought as he awkwardly placed an arm around her and pulled her into his chest. She could hear the strong thudding of his heart against her cheek, as if he was transmitting wavelengths after wavelengths of life force right down to her toes.

"I have a proposition."


"Maybe…we could go to the pier on Saturday night if the world doesn't end. We can grab cheap wine from 7-Eleven, get a bit drunk and swear at our parents like there's no tomorrow and then vomit over the fact we still love them. And then, you know, we can put down some meaning underneath 'our sexual rapport' in the dictionary." She couldn't see it in the darkness, but the tips of his ears were flaming as he spoke.

"I swear, if the world ends tonight, some shit will be blown up by me."