You were never good with the actual follow through, were you?
One of the things I remember most clearly from that
night is the dozen shot glasses lined up neatly on the kitchen counter,
glinting underneath the dim kitchen light, and a heavy bass drumming over my heart. There was
salt mixed with dirt tracked into the house stuck between my toes, and my fingers tasted sour from lemons that I
had carefully cut on the chopping board.
You were also there. Dark eyes behind
a large bottle of tequila, graceful fingers drumming impatiently around an
empty glass, smoke escaping your open mouth. Your collarbones shifted underneath the cheap fabric of your shirt when you leaned on the counter top, chin unsteady on the edge of your palms - was that a sign? Then that smirk, god I fucking hate that smirk, telling me about all the things I could do for you, all the things you could do to me, if only I would just -
And then your lips are on my shoulder, my cheek, my forehead, and I don't know whether one moment really connects to the next because everything is happening too quickly and I just want to slow things down and take everything in. So I can hold your hand to my cheek for a second longer, so that you can maybe catch a glimpse of something in me that's worth it.
But then it gets quiet because everyone is outside on waiting for taxis, and it's over because you're right back where you were before, behind the glasses and the walls you set up between us.
But then it gets quiet because everyone is outside on waiting for taxis, and it's over because you're right back where you were before, behind the glasses and the walls you set up between us.
