| Current mood: |  confused |
| Current music: | Night and Day>The Good Life |
Friday
Out of the club, fresh air, free air.
Short wall near the bus stop, we avoid eye contact with the cop walking by, then give in to laughter
the alcohol buzzes through our blood
the sweet clove smoke curls upwards
taxis
buses
cars
passing by
bright lights, big city
He explains, and the old ache opens up.
The one perfect person.
And you want it, have wanted, will want. Forever.
Impossible.
Blame him. Blame the drinks. Blame the noise, the cold air. The headiness of irresponsibility.
He denies.
A bus ride, a soda, a birthday toast later.
In the alleyway, there it is again.
You hedge, you invent. You challenge him: kiss me.
It's not a challenge, it's a plea. Does he realize through his haze? Do you realize? It doesn't matter.
And it doesn't matter to you, because it's perfect and drunken and wrong and public.
And doomed.
Because we're both just fucking idiots.
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