She leaned over him to get closer to the rearview mirror and dragged on
even more black eye liner. Glittery lipgloss sticky on her mouth, she
smiled viperously.
"God, I rock the white trash."
"What you lack in hairspray, you make up for in my non-ironic shitty metal shirts."
"It's an art form."
"It's grand theft."
She rolled her eyes and sneered indulgently, "Why don't you just rip it right off me, baby?"
* * *
She looked at him darkly. "You think you're better than me? Go and fucking answer that. One of your books got the answer? You act like you're the only one who can read. Your eyes are so pretty, you can see words I can't? Those books were on my reading list, too, asshole."
* * *
"The way you carry around those books, you're just trying to isolate yourself. People don't know the classics by heart, you write them off. You're such an asshole."
He'd heard this all before, blah blah blah elitism (whoa, you get it, he'd think), but her eyes narrowed one day. She leaned in and her voice got low.
"But you want to be adored. You want it one way. You don't want to give anything. You just want some girl pressing herself to the glass for a closer look at you. You want her to cry over you and punch walls over you. You mess yourself up. You know if people think you're good looking and your nose is broken and in a book you've got some poetic mind, some poetic soul, some poetic fuck."
* * *
"Someone has trust issues."
"Someone has a razor! "
"Do I have to tie you down?"
"Oh, creative, Bettie Page, I didn't see that coming."
"Shut up. Loser. You're looking scruffy. You need a haircut if you're going to be a good trophy boyfriend."
"Jesus Christ."
"For the girlfriends. My mother would have to give a fuck in order to be appalled. Sorry, I know you get off on that rebel rebel crap."
"Screw you."
"Sit down and shut up."
Shane smiled to herself and draped a towel around him when he finally gave in.
He glared at her but he sat still while she buzzed his hair down even. She was pretty good at a thing or two. He watched her closely as she finished up the sideburns with a straight razor, but she refused to meet his eyes.
She straightened up when she finished and whisked off the towel with a flourish.
"Gorgeous once again, gorgeous," she murmured. He rolled his eyes and hauled her on to his lap. When she wrapped her arms around him, he could feel the cold metal of the razor pressed against his neck.
She brushed her thumb over his lower lip. His eyes fluttered and he mumbled mindless assent. She shifted on his lap, and his eyes followed her hand, first button, second button, third button undone. He inhaled slowly and traced the digits of Rory's phone number on the small of her back.
(the end)
"God, I rock the white trash."
"What you lack in hairspray, you make up for in my non-ironic shitty metal shirts."
"It's an art form."
"It's grand theft."
She rolled her eyes and sneered indulgently, "Why don't you just rip it right off me, baby?"
* * *
She looked at him darkly. "You think you're better than me? Go and fucking answer that. One of your books got the answer? You act like you're the only one who can read. Your eyes are so pretty, you can see words I can't? Those books were on my reading list, too, asshole."
* * *
"The way you carry around those books, you're just trying to isolate yourself. People don't know the classics by heart, you write them off. You're such an asshole."
He'd heard this all before, blah blah blah elitism (whoa, you get it, he'd think), but her eyes narrowed one day. She leaned in and her voice got low.
"But you want to be adored. You want it one way. You don't want to give anything. You just want some girl pressing herself to the glass for a closer look at you. You want her to cry over you and punch walls over you. You mess yourself up. You know if people think you're good looking and your nose is broken and in a book you've got some poetic mind, some poetic soul, some poetic fuck."
* * *
"Someone has trust issues."
"Someone has a razor! "
"Do I have to tie you down?"
"Oh, creative, Bettie Page, I didn't see that coming."
"Shut up. Loser. You're looking scruffy. You need a haircut if you're going to be a good trophy boyfriend."
"Jesus Christ."
"For the girlfriends. My mother would have to give a fuck in order to be appalled. Sorry, I know you get off on that rebel rebel crap."
"Screw you."
"Sit down and shut up."
Shane smiled to herself and draped a towel around him when he finally gave in.
He glared at her but he sat still while she buzzed his hair down even. She was pretty good at a thing or two. He watched her closely as she finished up the sideburns with a straight razor, but she refused to meet his eyes.
She straightened up when she finished and whisked off the towel with a flourish.
"Gorgeous once again, gorgeous," she murmured. He rolled his eyes and hauled her on to his lap. When she wrapped her arms around him, he could feel the cold metal of the razor pressed against his neck.
She brushed her thumb over his lower lip. His eyes fluttered and he mumbled mindless assent. She shifted on his lap, and his eyes followed her hand, first button, second button, third button undone. He inhaled slowly and traced the digits of Rory's phone number on the small of her back.
(the end)