“Let’s just go.
“Let’s pass out somewhere,
“do this when I’m right in the fuckin’ head.
“Baby, please—I’m beggin’ you to give me the night. I’m not right. I’m—fuck—” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m fuckin’ losin’ it. I can’t even fight for you ‘cause I ain’t thinkin’ straight.”
Someone calls out his name—Andrew Harding.
I finally look around, outside of us.
A drum solo crashes through the speakers,
rattling the walls.
Bodies pile around us—hips moving,
drinks spilling,
mouths scheming.
We’re not loud.
We’re not airing our shit for everyone.
But they’re still watching
with eyes that don’t want a happy ending.
They want cursing. Crying.
Makeup melting down my face.
Then a girl stumbles up with a vodka grin.
“You alright, Harding?
“Looks like you need an out…”
She eyes me like I’ve got a knife to his throat.
Then she slips between us,
fingers sliding down his arm,
reaching for his hand,
and I feel the sensation sliding down mine, too.
My body can’t tell the difference between his skin and mine anymore.
My heart’spounding
turns intothrobbing.
Then tohurting.
Then to a sickness that tastes likeviolation.
