"What do you call a nun that sleepwalks?"
It had been like this for over two months now. Every friday night I'd get a phone call around 8, from her. She was drunk, some guy was trying to get a little to friendly with her, and she'd ask if I could pick her up. From there she'd ask for a ride home, and she'd run inside only to run out a few minutes later with a bottle of her parents favorite wine. The first couple times I almost drove off without her, now I know the routine.
"No idea, what?"
From there she'd ask me if I'd like to go somewhere, and we'd spend the night driving around the city, parked infront of flower boutiques, or parks, or by the ocean. She'd insist we'd wait for the ligths to turn on for good luck, before we could leave and go to our next location. All the while she'd be in the passenger seat, trying to polish off another bottle, blurting out random facts, stupid jokes, or singing along to whatever was on the radio and playing air guitar.
"A Roman' Catholic."
Halfway through the bottle she'd start crying, and I'd be there to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay. She'd tell me about all her problems, and I'd do my best to help her figure things out, and she'd tell me I was the best friend she ever had. I'd laugh and ask her to tell me another joke, and she'd smile up at me and say okay.
She had perfect teeth.
"That was pretty funny, Meems."
The rest of the bottle was usually finished off in silence, and she'd usually spill the last few drops on her tight white tshirt. I'd laugh, and she'd say she was starting to feel sick, so I'd start the car and start driving towards her house. She'd ramble on, slurring hers words and talk about late night movies and how she'd like to go to one with a girl who could skate. I could relate, I'd never tell her that though.
"I guess. Can I tell you a secret?"
"Sure can."
Every friday night she'd tell me about how she didn't want to finish high school, and how she thought she could make it without a diploma, how she was pretty enough. Every Friday night I told her that it wasn't a good idea, and she'd tell me I was right, that I was always right. I'd laugh. And every Friday night she'd try to kiss me, and I'd pull away, telling her she was drunk and she'd regret it in the morning. She'd laugh, and I'd hurt a little inside because it was something I wanted to do, but couldn't. Morals. Ha. Still, parked infront of her apartment, she'd ask if I'd like to go in with her, and she'd add a sly wink to the end of it. Every friday night I'd say no, tell her I'd see her later, and drive home.
"You have perfect teeth."
I went in with her that night. Part of it could be because she hadn't finished her bottle of wine that night, and a large part of it could have been that I had been the one to finish her bottle. Most of it was because I was in love.
She may have thought I had perfect teeth, but I thought she had a perfect everything.