Her kisses feel cheap, you think. They taste like metal coins, and the flavor always lingers on your tongue long after she's gone. It's not particularly a pleasant taste, but you suppose it's partly your fault. After all, your mouth's been busy smacking on that handsome greaser who smells like oil and pomade, but looks and feels as holy as heaven. Anything after kissing him would taste bitter.
She's not one to blame though. You are, and you're fully aware of it. She kisses just fine, and you knew that before. Ever since your tongue developed a fondness for your best friend's, everyone else has turned sharp and rancid.
She seems to notice the disdain on your face, and how far away you seem and takes the unintentional hint, pressing a smooch on your jawline before whispering an "I'll see you later" and sauntering out of the DX. You knew she wasn't going to stay long anyway, so you don't feel so bad. She barely bothers you at work, knowing that the grease and engine you were working with would always be more important than her at those hours of the day. How would she feel if she knew you were doing something entirely different than the vehicles? That fiery take-no-shit girl of yours would kick your ass so hard your head would spin. But you don't care. Anything was worth hearing Sodapop Curtis moaning and groaning.
Everyone thinks you're just best friends. Both of you know it's bullshit, but neither one of you aren't too sure what one would call your relationship anyway. You guys are more than friends with benefits, but not nearly as solid as partners. Whatever's going on is just fine though so you don't think about it often, but sometimes you wonder what you would respond with if someone asked you to truthfully say what he meant to you. You wonder what he would say.
But you were never one for corniness, so you don't like to go beyond that.
You're turning your head after a customer has paid and you see him look at you with that knowing smirk, 'cause you and him understand that later, long after the manager has taken off for the night, you two are gonna be entangled between the sheets in the back rather than under the cars. He locks eyes with you for a brief moment and you see the lust igniting in those thoughtful dark brown irises you used to think were so innocent. He releases his hold and goes back to chatting with those pretty girls that hung around the DX way too much, who he knows is just trying to get a glimpse of those movie star looks. Soc chicks, greaser girls, they all fucking loved him. He's nice to them though, and it's not because he has to be. You used to get jealous, but you knew who he was going to be with later on so you don't mind so much anymore.
After awhile, they went away, bored with the flirtatious giggles that seemed to be taking them nowhere, and so did the other customers, until eventually, the manager left as well. Finally, you had that fine-looking greaser all to yourself and you plan to take full advantage of it.
The beginning happens quickly and you're sprawled out on the ratty couch the DX put back there for resting (which no one had done much of), and Soda's on top of you, sucking on your bottom lip like a lollipop, his hands roaming until he finds that sweet spot that drives you crazy. You're letting out a groan and you know he takes a liking to the fact that he can pleasure you like no other so he sucks a little harder and presses a little firmer. "Glory," you manage to breath out.
He doesn't taste metallic. He tastes like chocolate cake and coke, even though he hasn't touched a crumb or a drop today, and you know it's because he's had that meal so many times the sweetness has adhered to him like Velcro. You suddenly realize that if that's the only good taste you'll ever have in a kiss, you won't mind that everyone else has gone rotten.