No.
No, fuck that. He touched me.
Touchedme.
And now it’s tar creeping through my veins.
“Ay—nah. You serious right now?”
A male voice barrels through the crowd,
wearing a Def Leppard tee,
sleeves strangling his biceps.
Another guy's behind him with a Staten jawline and buzz cut.
Def Lep points at me like I’m his girl,
born and raised.
“Yo. You really put hands on her?
“Right fuckin’ here?”
Mr. Shoulder Grab backs up,
but not before hearing:
“Try that again, and your whole grill’s gonna be part of the floor plan.”
Then Def Lep slides up next to me,
arm brushing mine,
as if we’ve been dating since kindergarten.
I stand here, speechless,
staring into the abyss of whiskey and sweat and confusion.
“You’re welcome,” he says, full grin, full dumbass. “Name's Wes.”
His friend steps in on the other side of me. “Jake.”
The drums scream around me.
The guitars saw through the floor.
Andrew’s shoulders glint under the lights,
his chest glistening.
He sings the hook with his eyes closed,
his tattoo flexing with every breath,
as if it’s breathing too.
