So, you're just walking along, right? You're walking along, unlit cigarette in your mouth and absolutely baking in your leather jacket, when you see this absolutely choice babe. She's absolutely on her own, too – no boyfriend, no best friend, no pop-pop to try and chase you away.
So she's maybe five two, a short little thing but not without the curves, right? She's wearing a poodle skirt and a white shirt with some weird symbol on it, and her hair's short and dark and kind of curly, and overall, you want her. You want her now. She's sitting on a bench with her ankles crossed, reading a book that you actually recognize, not that you'd ever admit to recognizing it, so you go sidling up and sit down beside her. You throw your arms out, resting them on the back of the bench. She looks at you. She looks confused. She's got this round little face with plump little lips and oh you want her so badly.
"Cronus," you say, holding out your hand. You figure that even she doesn't want to shake your hand she will; sometimes girls won't but she looks like her daddy told her to be polite. And she does shake your hand.
"Jane," she says. She shifts a little bit, and you bite down hard on your cigarette. You wonder if you should light it. You wonder if you'll start coughing. You've got asthma, and smoking don't help it none, but you think that you might be able to risk it if you look cool. "Um… what do you want?"
"Oh, nothin'," you say. You stretch a little, turning your eyes up to the sky for a minute, and then switch your attention down to her. "Hey, you want to go catch a movie or something?"
She hesitates. This is the moment where you get slapped or left. It's not your fault that you sound a little desperate with these next words.
"C'mon, kitten," you say. You lean toward her, and her nose wrinkles a little bit, and you wonder if you put too much grease in your hair. Your brother, little nerd he is, always thinks you do, so you always tend to just ignore what he says. "I'll pay. I'll even buy you a Coke, how about that?"
"Well," she says, and you figure that you're so close anyway that you might as well just keep pushing.
"C'mon. C'mon, it'll be fun. Don't you want to? I'm not a bad guy, you know," you say, and for a second you wonder if you'd have better luck if you mentioned the book. Then you decide that's the stupidest idea you've ever had, and you'll look like dork, and then where are you? Right back where you started. So you don't mention it. You just lean closer to her. She's not slapping you or anything, so you figure that she's just a little shy. "Don't be shy."
"Fine," she says, and she's well and truly flustered now. Damn, Ampora, you are good.
You stand up and she stands up and you grab her hand, just sort of on impulse. She lets you, and even blushes a little – she's darker, so it's not super easy to see, but you can tell. You can tell, and it's not wishful thinking. The two of you walk along, hand-in-hand. You wonder again if you should light your cigarette. What if she asks about it? Should you make up some bullshit excuse? Or should you light it? You're sure as hell not mentioning the lung disease.
The two of you find some matinee horror flick that you think is perfect for a first date. Jane is probably like all girls, and she will probably shriek and hide in your shoulder, which is exactly what you want. Extra touching leads to makeouts in the back of the theater leads to getting escorted out by security. You've always wanted to be escorted out by security because you were making out in the back of the theater. Just imagine the stories you could tell… uh, your little brother.
The movie doesn't start for another few minutes, so she talks a little. Which is good, because then you can watch those perfect, plump lips move around the words and-
"Are you listening?"
Uh. No.
"Sorry, kitten, musta just zoned out," you say. You lean forward, and the two of you are so close you could almost kiss her. You wonder if you should try, and then she turns away. "What were you saying? I'm a really good listener, if you catch me in a good moment. I was just…" Think, Ampora, think! "Thinkin' about how pretty you are, that's all."
Damn right, you just killed it.
She flushes a little again, and that's when the movie starts. You're a little embarrassed to say that you get totally sucked into it. She doesn't hide in your shoulder, you have no promise of getting escorted out because of making out, so you just sort of forget about it. It's a good movie, and she's a good person to watch a movie with – she seems to be just as sucked in as you, and so you both just kind of forget about each other.
Later, of course, you smack yourself for not taking advantage of that environment. Dark, public, glorious – the perfect time to cop a feel, and you didn't even try for it. Damn you, Ampora.
When the two of you leave, she grabs your hand and smiles up at you, and you feel your heart do this weird little palpitation. Also, her shirt slipped down her shoulder in the theater, you can see her bra strap, and Little Cronus wants to think about what you could be doing if the rest of the shirt was off. She doesn't notice – both you staring at her uncovered flesh and the uncovered flesh itself, which is good. It would be better if she noticed and just ripped her clothes off, but you'll take what you can get.
"So, Cronus," she says. She straightens, and her bra strap goes back into hiding and you inwardly curse. "Thank you."
"No problem, kitten," you say. You lean against the side of the movie theater. "You got a number I might be able to get my hands on?"
She giggles and pulls out a slip of paper. "Got a pen?"
You pat down the pockets of your leather jacket until you find a small, chewed-on pencil. You hand it out and she doesn't even flinch when she scribbles on the paper. She slides it into your hands, smiles again – she's got buck-teeth, and even though usually that would cause you to mention the name of your dentist, you've somehow managed to retain enough sense to not mention it right now – and she's off. You find your eyes drawn to the poodle skirt again. You want to commit it to memory for a while, at least.
Then you shove the phone number into one of your pockets, pick a new cigarette out of your pack, and saunter home.
This was requested by an anon on Tumblr, who wanted a sort of 50's/greaser Crojane! This was mostly Cronus inner-monologue. And, also, I'm pretty sure this isn't quite what they meant. But you know.
