[A/N: I don't own Nor do I own the song Sex and Candy. But I do own...you know, that great thing that is mine. Whatever that might be.

How exciting, my Degrassi debut. I've really liked Degrassi for a long time now, so it's only appopriate. Expect lots of Degrassi from me, especially once The N starts playing more of it. Woohoo. Enjoy the fic.]

Hanging around
Downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think about myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah, there she was
Like disco superfly

Blood ran thick to my head. I peered down at my palms, my tired hands rested, shriveled on the familiar wooden bartop. Hands with thick lines, dirt and grime resting in each crevice. Weary hands that met no labor, only bottle upon bottle. I lived the life I had tried so hard to avoid. But she was there. I could feel the sensation in my veins, creeping throughout. Air so thick your lungs struggled to take it in. The stale stench of cigarette smoke mingled with the overpowering musky smell of cheap men's cologne. Yet somehow, the presence of a woman, the tiny drop of floral perfume she splashed on her wrists that evening, aerated through the room. It could be ignored by none, especially not me. Not for the life of me, could I let the tingling feeling deep in my skin pass me by. Not when I knew who she was, and exactly what she came for.

Dangerous red platform boots entered the room.

Here it goes again.

I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair?
Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?
Mama, this surely is a dream
Yeah, yeah, mama, surely is a dream

Every last Saturday of every month, she showed up here, the tavern on Degrassi Street. It was no coincidence. It could not be a coincidence. When I felt vindictive glares burn into my skin when I wasn't looking, I just knew it was no coincidence. I'd sit with my back turned and take all of the wordless beating, as if I were some child afraid to call out for help. But it was so routine, I never second-guessed it. The one thing I'd never been able to understand, despite the endless hours I wasted thinking solely of it, was why I kept on coming back. How I knew exactly what day she'd come, exactly what time of day, and exactly what would occur in those couple hours. And even though I could've easily avoided the situation altogether, I was here. The idea crossed my mind that I was maybe completely numb to the subtle attempt at deviousness. And it seemed like a plausible idea, but when I finally realized how much time I spent thinking about her, I discovered the gaping wound it had left in my heart.

Maybe I just craved the attention.

Hanging around
Downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinking about myself
And then there she was
In platform double suede
Yeah, there she was
Like disco lemonade

The night had progressed as usual. She sat primly yet condescendingly on the grimy booth seat. Or so I guessed. I never actually checked. I was too fearful to turn around and stare into her eyes and allow myself to turn to stone. She was a vision of loveliness, so soon marred by the introduction of heartbreak. Such things worked trenchant wonders on her self-esteem. I'd always felt like it was a domino effect, and I was that blundering fool who flailed around and knocked over the first one, igniting all the rest. Except, there was no one there to inform me of my wrong-doing. So how was I supposed to know I'd led the girl into a life of desperation? She seemed sane enough, so why would I worry about potential permanent damage I'd caused? This did, after all, take place in high school. Back when I was that subtly self-absorbed guy with the nice facade. Now I'm that blantaly self-absorbed guy. It's not even like I like myself. It's just....I'm all I care about. Haven't been in a relationship in months, and the one that lasted the longest, lasted 7 months. I was never quite the romantic. Although I started with good intentions, about a month or two in, all I wanted was the skin-on-skin contact, and the taste of succulent lips upon mine, and just...passion. Lust. But no female ever wanted that. But what about my needs? What about the fact that I thirsted for the quenching satisfaction of sex? Girls turned their noses up at that, and continued on pretending like love actually fulfilled them. As if talking to someone was enough. That was one thing she taught me early on.

Love was for the naive.

I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair?
Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?
Mama, this surely is a dream
Yeah, yeah, mama, this surely is a dream
Yeah, mama, this surely is a dream

And I'm sorry. I'm sorry true love can't exist, but her looks of unbridled disgust, the glares from that night so quickly returning to the front of my mind. And how she'd ruined my chances at (what I believed to be) real love. It all murdered it for me. There was love, and there was passion. I thought she understood my needs. I thought she had those needs. I thought we could fulfill them for each other. Instead, I screwed it all up. Story of my life. I haven't been the same in love since 10th grade. I haven't felt the fluttering of my heart or that romantic spark supposedly accompanying love. I only felt responsibility, and just a pointless weight on my shoulders. That was why I came here. I let the booze and the smoke fog up my memory. I needed it to be a blur, if I was going to keep living my personal hell in peace. But there were times when I remembered, it was all her fault. I didn't initiate any of it. Yet here I was, living with the burdens, seemingly the only one who felt a permanent aftermath. The more I thought this, the more real these imagined stares in my direction became. All from this one girl, so innocently dangerous.

I was minding my own business. I always did. I never cared about the old guy two bars stools down whining to the bartender for another vodka on the rocks. Or the groups of college kids who would barge in and beers would be passed around. But I couldn't ignore the loud thump, as platforms made as they made their way across creaky wooden floors. My heart rate increased slightly with each louder thump. Then a figure made its way into my peripheral vision, three or four stools down. It was her.

I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair?
Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?
Mama, this surely is a dream
Yeah, mama, this surely is a dream
Yeah, mama, this surely is a dream
Yeah, mama, this must be my dream

I turned my head minutely in her direction, and let my eyes inconspicuously land upon her. Her wavy hair laid angelically across her left shoulder, the one facing me, as she leaned on the bartop and chatted quietly with the bartender. I couldn't see the expression on her face. I couldn't even determine whether she looked happy or sad overall. I only noticed her firey red fingernails, and the deep purple tint on her pouty lips. Ironic. Colors, on a person so black and white. My face still turned slightly towards her with the passing seconds, struggling to see her face in full. Suddenly, though, her conversation ended, and as my heart pounded out of my chest, she turned to me. Her eyes looked lost. Her mouth was stuck in a contemplative position. We were both shocked, she in her silent way, I in my blatant way. Words seemed unnecessary. At one point, I thought it would be so much better if she walked away. If we pretended like we hadn't encountered one another at all. Her eyes merely squinted slightly at me, caught between disdain and wonderment. I was sure I looked like hell, while she reeked of sex. Sex, yet innocence.

Hey, Craig.

I was thrown off track. I had imagined a hateful one like that fateful night had offered years ago. A forced One that proved to me I had been right all along, that she had only been at the bar to sit and despise me, and ponder ways to make my life more of a hell than before. The burning stares, the mind games, the scornful way she watched me. Figments of my imagination.

Hey, Manny.

Or figments of my conscience.