— a short story about a repetitive cycle of almost being in love
your face is red from the reflection of the neon Valley Bar sign while we wait in line in the rain. it smells like cigarettes and trash. we’re in an alley anyway, what else would it smell like?
your wet hair turns the color of coffee with some milk in it instead of the blonde it usually is when it’s dry.
I find myself wanting to stand right next to you, like some gravitational pull is keeping me there, hoping that when we get inside I’ll end up next to you in the circle we’ll form with our friends. I hope that happens so it doesn’t seem like I’m trying too hard to be with you when everyone is just trying to dance.
I mean, this is how it goes every weekend. pathetic of me, but I feel like I need you. of course at first, you’re just a friend. it always starts the same way.
but by your third drink, I catch you staring at me maybe twice. meanwhile, I can’t fucking stop staring at you. your pupils are so heavily dilated I can’t see the blue around them anymore.
I need a new drink, and you say you do too, so we go to the bar outside the dance floor, squeezing past people through the narrow hallway.
there, you kiss me and I feel half your drink spill on my arm. you didn’t need a new drink, not until now at least.
I can feel the vibrations of Mr. Brightside through the walls before I can hear the song itself. In my head this couldn’t be more perfect the way I romanticize everything. maybe that’s my issue.
you make me feel like a scene from a movie, but I’ll never get the ending where the main characters fall in love.
instead, we act like this never happened, and I’ll wait until next weekend to feel it all over again
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