Hi yall. Hee hee it's been a while. (Sorry)Can't believe 400 stories
already! Son of a gun. Got a lot of reading to do. Thanks to my readers
and reviewers, I LOVE YOU ALL! I'm really surprised anyone actually reads
my stories and/ or likes them. You all deserve a bottle of Pepsi Cola at
the drive in!
Ok, this little bit is about Evie and what she feels about Steve, and how
Steve affects her. I didn't like how I portrayed her in the last chapter.I
wanted Evie to be more real not some ditzy cute girl, so I tried eh. I
don't like this chapter much ( doesn't have much flow), but I needed to
start writing again. Sorry Steve fans, I didn't make him very nice at all.
Not that I don't love Steve! I think Steve is a very cool but complicated
character, and I will write more positive stuff about him in the NEAR
future I promise. If there is any suggestions, please tell me. Ok, I guess
here it goes.
***********
"I wish Howard would pick me up inna car." Her friend Jeanette says sits on the chair, a cigarette hanging from her bottom lips, one leg resting on the ground one leg raised so her knee reached her neck- this position shows some of her white panties. She wears a pastel blue-collared men's nightshirt, her legs are pink, soft and hairless-they had been in bathroom for a few minutes before shaving them. She runs her fingers up and down her legs, almost inspecting for smoothness. She has a square jaw and a plump cute nose.
"He doesn't have a car, even if he had the money he would never spend it. He's so tight, his asshole squeaks. "Evie's voice is slurred and whiny. Her face looks like a harmless yellow cabbage, and her eyelashes spray out like spindly spider legs. Her hair is limp and flaxen, not adhered with spray to her scalp like is normally. Her makeup is starting peel off her skin in flakes and her lips are soft. Her hips are large and get larger as she sits down and her thighs widen as they are pressed down on the bedspread. She wears a flouncy white nightgown that goes down to her mid-thigh, one that a baby might wear at a baptizing. Her legs are irritated , hairless and raw, and she has a small cut down the side of her calve with is still bleeding.
They are having a sleepover. The room is littered with clothing, for the longest time they had made outfits for eachother from Jeanette's closet. The room is an complete mess with a small ignored stack of books at the foot of a low bed and several posters of teen idols on the wall. A small crooked table with littered cheap makeup and nail polish is at the corner of the room as well as a small round mirror that is smudged with lips, hands and powder.
"You shouldn't talk. What about Steve? Have you ever seen him angry? It heard it's enough to stop your period in its tracks." Jeanette runs a hand through her black stringy hair and her dull grey eyes stares critically at Evie's legs.
"Humph, works for me, I hate havin my period anyways." Strangely Evie strangely feels the need to defend him, knowing what she knows now.
"Ha ha ha, that's no excuse to get yourself knocked up." Jeanette said humorlessy, her eyes darting back to her cigarette. She takes it out of her mouth and blows a stream of hot smoke through her nostrils.
Evie stayed silent, her body was as still as a mountain, that lead up to his large eyes that shone like the headlights of a heavy truck veering forward.
Steve. oh yes Steve Randle. Moody smart cocky Steve. Steve was not practically handsome at first glance, but if you looked closely at him you would see that he had appealing qualities. His eyebrows were dark and thick on his red forehead. His eyes were ferocious dark and liquidy like those of a cat, surrounded by bristly dark lashes. His nose was sharp, jutting out precariously like the edge of a cliff from his high cheeks, and toward his lips- a thin red line like in his face. His pink ears had thick healthy lobes, and were flat against the side of his head. To top it off was those fine dark greasy swirls that looked like a Japanese Edo painting of a churning sea. His chest was flat, not muscular but lean in his ribcage and soft under his bellybutton. In all, his appearance was one of storybook illustration of arrogant Spanish manidore clutching a scarlet cloth, slowly circling a devilish black bull.
It would be easy to say that there was nothing more to Steve then his pride in his hair, his cockiness, his obsession with cars, wits and his bad temper for there seemed to be nothing remarkable about him. Like any a typical greaser- he arrived strutting and swiveling in his tight blue jeans and low collared T-shirts, his mouths hanging open lazily so he could let out a cuss word every breath he took and his hands smelling like Camels and crotch- typical, ridiculous, devastating. He wasn't a manidore, or a Japanese painting or a cliff. But he was a fucking boyfriend. Why Soda even associated with Steve was beyond her. Perhaps Soda looked at Steve the same way. He wasn't the cat pajamas, or the cat's meow, or even the cat's parasites. But he was a fucking best friend. But now she understood that there was more. Helen had known.
A few hours ago, she tried to break up with him. She smoked to calm her nerves, tried avoiding his eyes. Why must she suffer, why must she let those ravenous dark eyes devour her body from her hips, her breasts and her lips? She felt as if he was constantly playing a hideous joke on her, by spending the smallest amount of money as possible on her, calling her "bayyy-beeee" in that mock crooning voice, sniffing her hair and neck loudly while clutching her waist so hard so she couldn't wiggle away, and when she spoke she could not help but cringe because he was just waiting till she could shut her little mouth up so he could squeeze in something smart.
She laughed like a banshee at him, he said something stupid. In retaliation, he had grabbed her cheeks and squeezed them together and it hurt with a sore burning flesh pain. Her tissue of her inner cheek got wedged between her teeth and her eyes watered.
She looked into Steve's face. His thick brows knitted together but his eyes were desperate and soft with almost an fierce adoration, and his mouth open carved in a downward twist of agony, rage and terror as if she was about to shoot his brains out.
She saw in a magazine once when she was little maybe 6 or 7. The magazine had a advert showing a fair faced man dressed in a bright cheerful buttoned shirt and matching pants - his face pained, and terribly and oddly proud because the woman he pined for (with healthy cleavage, tiny waist, long golden hair tied up in winding beehive upon her dainty gorgeous head) was in the arms of a another handsome man because that man used another cologne.
When she saw that inked -in face of the fair man, she felt her something lurch inside her for a mere second yet it was that something that seemed to be so distant and untouchable. It was an fantastic transcending ecstasy, a feeling that the world was full of terribly and oddly proud lonely people who needed a woman, and she was fortunate enough to become one. Oh, she could be so gloriously beautifully virtuously woman! She would move along at dizzying and graceful speed- charming exquisite men and women and filling them with joy with a single chaste kiss- then disappearing like a fugitive angel (and with a swish of elegant skirts) to leave them alone with their pleasure. Everywhere she would go she would bestow delicate feminine touches, a sliver vase of creamy white roses, a luscious ruby lipstick print, a seashell with a pink fleshy smooth inside, a never-ending rope of dark pearls. She wanted to cry out in a ringing , clear, melodious voice "yes forever, forever!" Perhaps that she would sustain all of world with a wide blinding smile and wearing fine little high heels with little darling bows on them. That was the single most romantic moment of her life.
And that moment as she gazed in Steve's face- now she knew it would that moment would never come back. Lonely people were not terribly and oddly proud. They lived in agony, rage and terror of a plight- of an affliction they had brought upon themselves! They just never wore the right cologne! They could never be content with a kiss, never be alone in their pleasure. They're only happiness was their misery that made believe that they were righteous, that they were different- that they were better! They would stumble and mope around the earth looking for women to devour-for what good was a vase of roses when you could have hips, breasts, and lips instead? And she replied to all the lonely people in the world with her cheeks being crushed "Youff basturd."
Jeanette shifted nervously. "Shit, well.what you like love him or something?" Jeanette's voice grew high, strained almost alarmed. She let out a long breath, blinked quickly and took a deep long drag off her long cigarette.
Evie stared at her. Her mouth twitched. "No, infact I tried to break up with him today." "Tried?"
" You know he kept grabbing my waist, his hand was all sweaty. He kept looking like he was going to collapse. He kept on calling me baby.like some fucking.fucking Elvis movie or something." Evie's voice was on the borderline of apathetic as if she was trying to recall something pathetic, something barely worth mentioning, hahahah. She had 1st asked herself why must she suffer. But now she wondered. Why did Steve suffer? Why did he want her so, when all she did on dates was crane her neck looking for Soda? Why did he have to call Darry all brawn no brains and get his jaw busted open ( she remembered a purple slack jaw on Steve that morning at school)Why did he apparently hate his father so much ? If she had known, she would of asked why he went to Johnny's grave himself or why he vomited when Dallas died.
In the 2nd time that day, she began to cry.
"I wish Howard would pick me up inna car." Her friend Jeanette says sits on the chair, a cigarette hanging from her bottom lips, one leg resting on the ground one leg raised so her knee reached her neck- this position shows some of her white panties. She wears a pastel blue-collared men's nightshirt, her legs are pink, soft and hairless-they had been in bathroom for a few minutes before shaving them. She runs her fingers up and down her legs, almost inspecting for smoothness. She has a square jaw and a plump cute nose.
"He doesn't have a car, even if he had the money he would never spend it. He's so tight, his asshole squeaks. "Evie's voice is slurred and whiny. Her face looks like a harmless yellow cabbage, and her eyelashes spray out like spindly spider legs. Her hair is limp and flaxen, not adhered with spray to her scalp like is normally. Her makeup is starting peel off her skin in flakes and her lips are soft. Her hips are large and get larger as she sits down and her thighs widen as they are pressed down on the bedspread. She wears a flouncy white nightgown that goes down to her mid-thigh, one that a baby might wear at a baptizing. Her legs are irritated , hairless and raw, and she has a small cut down the side of her calve with is still bleeding.
They are having a sleepover. The room is littered with clothing, for the longest time they had made outfits for eachother from Jeanette's closet. The room is an complete mess with a small ignored stack of books at the foot of a low bed and several posters of teen idols on the wall. A small crooked table with littered cheap makeup and nail polish is at the corner of the room as well as a small round mirror that is smudged with lips, hands and powder.
"You shouldn't talk. What about Steve? Have you ever seen him angry? It heard it's enough to stop your period in its tracks." Jeanette runs a hand through her black stringy hair and her dull grey eyes stares critically at Evie's legs.
"Humph, works for me, I hate havin my period anyways." Strangely Evie strangely feels the need to defend him, knowing what she knows now.
"Ha ha ha, that's no excuse to get yourself knocked up." Jeanette said humorlessy, her eyes darting back to her cigarette. She takes it out of her mouth and blows a stream of hot smoke through her nostrils.
Evie stayed silent, her body was as still as a mountain, that lead up to his large eyes that shone like the headlights of a heavy truck veering forward.
Steve. oh yes Steve Randle. Moody smart cocky Steve. Steve was not practically handsome at first glance, but if you looked closely at him you would see that he had appealing qualities. His eyebrows were dark and thick on his red forehead. His eyes were ferocious dark and liquidy like those of a cat, surrounded by bristly dark lashes. His nose was sharp, jutting out precariously like the edge of a cliff from his high cheeks, and toward his lips- a thin red line like in his face. His pink ears had thick healthy lobes, and were flat against the side of his head. To top it off was those fine dark greasy swirls that looked like a Japanese Edo painting of a churning sea. His chest was flat, not muscular but lean in his ribcage and soft under his bellybutton. In all, his appearance was one of storybook illustration of arrogant Spanish manidore clutching a scarlet cloth, slowly circling a devilish black bull.
It would be easy to say that there was nothing more to Steve then his pride in his hair, his cockiness, his obsession with cars, wits and his bad temper for there seemed to be nothing remarkable about him. Like any a typical greaser- he arrived strutting and swiveling in his tight blue jeans and low collared T-shirts, his mouths hanging open lazily so he could let out a cuss word every breath he took and his hands smelling like Camels and crotch- typical, ridiculous, devastating. He wasn't a manidore, or a Japanese painting or a cliff. But he was a fucking boyfriend. Why Soda even associated with Steve was beyond her. Perhaps Soda looked at Steve the same way. He wasn't the cat pajamas, or the cat's meow, or even the cat's parasites. But he was a fucking best friend. But now she understood that there was more. Helen had known.
A few hours ago, she tried to break up with him. She smoked to calm her nerves, tried avoiding his eyes. Why must she suffer, why must she let those ravenous dark eyes devour her body from her hips, her breasts and her lips? She felt as if he was constantly playing a hideous joke on her, by spending the smallest amount of money as possible on her, calling her "bayyy-beeee" in that mock crooning voice, sniffing her hair and neck loudly while clutching her waist so hard so she couldn't wiggle away, and when she spoke she could not help but cringe because he was just waiting till she could shut her little mouth up so he could squeeze in something smart.
She laughed like a banshee at him, he said something stupid. In retaliation, he had grabbed her cheeks and squeezed them together and it hurt with a sore burning flesh pain. Her tissue of her inner cheek got wedged between her teeth and her eyes watered.
She looked into Steve's face. His thick brows knitted together but his eyes were desperate and soft with almost an fierce adoration, and his mouth open carved in a downward twist of agony, rage and terror as if she was about to shoot his brains out.
She saw in a magazine once when she was little maybe 6 or 7. The magazine had a advert showing a fair faced man dressed in a bright cheerful buttoned shirt and matching pants - his face pained, and terribly and oddly proud because the woman he pined for (with healthy cleavage, tiny waist, long golden hair tied up in winding beehive upon her dainty gorgeous head) was in the arms of a another handsome man because that man used another cologne.
When she saw that inked -in face of the fair man, she felt her something lurch inside her for a mere second yet it was that something that seemed to be so distant and untouchable. It was an fantastic transcending ecstasy, a feeling that the world was full of terribly and oddly proud lonely people who needed a woman, and she was fortunate enough to become one. Oh, she could be so gloriously beautifully virtuously woman! She would move along at dizzying and graceful speed- charming exquisite men and women and filling them with joy with a single chaste kiss- then disappearing like a fugitive angel (and with a swish of elegant skirts) to leave them alone with their pleasure. Everywhere she would go she would bestow delicate feminine touches, a sliver vase of creamy white roses, a luscious ruby lipstick print, a seashell with a pink fleshy smooth inside, a never-ending rope of dark pearls. She wanted to cry out in a ringing , clear, melodious voice "yes forever, forever!" Perhaps that she would sustain all of world with a wide blinding smile and wearing fine little high heels with little darling bows on them. That was the single most romantic moment of her life.
And that moment as she gazed in Steve's face- now she knew it would that moment would never come back. Lonely people were not terribly and oddly proud. They lived in agony, rage and terror of a plight- of an affliction they had brought upon themselves! They just never wore the right cologne! They could never be content with a kiss, never be alone in their pleasure. They're only happiness was their misery that made believe that they were righteous, that they were different- that they were better! They would stumble and mope around the earth looking for women to devour-for what good was a vase of roses when you could have hips, breasts, and lips instead? And she replied to all the lonely people in the world with her cheeks being crushed "Youff basturd."
Jeanette shifted nervously. "Shit, well.what you like love him or something?" Jeanette's voice grew high, strained almost alarmed. She let out a long breath, blinked quickly and took a deep long drag off her long cigarette.
Evie stared at her. Her mouth twitched. "No, infact I tried to break up with him today." "Tried?"
" You know he kept grabbing my waist, his hand was all sweaty. He kept looking like he was going to collapse. He kept on calling me baby.like some fucking.fucking Elvis movie or something." Evie's voice was on the borderline of apathetic as if she was trying to recall something pathetic, something barely worth mentioning, hahahah. She had 1st asked herself why must she suffer. But now she wondered. Why did Steve suffer? Why did he want her so, when all she did on dates was crane her neck looking for Soda? Why did he have to call Darry all brawn no brains and get his jaw busted open ( she remembered a purple slack jaw on Steve that morning at school)Why did he apparently hate his father so much ? If she had known, she would of asked why he went to Johnny's grave himself or why he vomited when Dallas died.
In the 2nd time that day, she began to cry.