| dewy decimal |
2004-08-01 - 2:31 a.m.
I noticed him staring at me. The sides of his mouth were upturned, but only slightly. I think Pete Heller's Big Love was playing at that very moment. Popular was already on its last leg and the music was straight out of the Kids Klub archives. On my most practiced face, I returned his smile, which is so unlike me.
By the time it was 1:20 am I had my first conversation with Brandon. I asked him if he would be going to the Love Festival the following day and he'd said that, yes, he would indeed be attending Hawaii's little summer massive, and when I asked if he could possibly maybe keep an eye out for me, he said that he would and you better believe that that was enough for me to sleep real easy.
Last night, I practically ditched my friends to hang out with him under the dark, booming shadows at the water park. I was so fucked up on my two rolls, lighting the wrong ends of my cigarrettes, cross-eyed. And at quick glances, I coulda sworn that was glitter rubbed all round his eyes, the deepest and darkest eyes I'd seen in years.
He was wearing a long sleeve black fishnet shirt and skin tight vinyl pants. Boots laced to the knee caps. Cropped mop.
I was wearing my Nike hightops. An Arena Homme cap with green stitches, and tapered blue jeans. A rope chain with my gold, Las Vegas Eagle piece, and an ostentatious Dolce Gabbana T-shirt.
Without saying so, I could sense one question resounding in my friends quiet stares, those pitch black faces with the white, hard, open eyes; What the fuck is he wearing? I could sense it because I was thinking the exact same thing but quickly got over it for the simple fact that the boy is fucking cute as cupcake. Pink frosting, even.
We wandered through the stammering bustle, from the bathrooms to the main stage, the dark pavilion to the water stands. It'd been so long since I�d shown any interest in anyone that I was surprised at my cool. At the slack of the conversation that ebbed from our lips. But then I remembered the shitload of drugs I'd just taken.
Now I�m sitting here in my newly painted room, obsessing over last night. Wondering if he�s suffering at work for our late night adventures. Rerunning my hands over his clammy, pale body. Piecing together the bits of information he�d offered me, trying to assemble a comprehensive profile. Grew up in Washington State. Has two jobs. Works seven days a week. Knew the lyrics to Magic Stick. Has shaky hands like me. A former crystal addict. Thinks I�m cute. Dislikes pot and beer. Avid coffee consumer. Has a veering eye that bothers me a little. Maybe even more.
Part of me knows we�re too different. My friends would never understand. We could never share clothes. And then there�s my insecurities. Would he leave me for the next hotter boy, or maybe the whiter boy, just the way that Lee did. And am I even capable of being anyone's significant other for anything longer than a Hollywood hiccup?
And the other part�oh Lordy, that kiss!