I realize it's not spring. I felt like it anyway.
Chapter 2
Jess flipped through the radio stations, jabbing the poor little black buttons to death, finding all his pre-sets useless. He racked through the piles of CDs and tapes he had dumped on the passenger seat, taking slight nervous glances to the clear road ahead of him. It was late, he needed driving music and coffee or sleeping music and a place to pull over. Nearing a park, he decided on the latter.
The gravel crunched beneath the car wheels, the headlights illuminating silhouettes of tress and tourist information centers that probably smelt like grains and bird shit. He propped open the car door, jamming Sigur Ros' () into the car's cd player and letting the music flow out into the sweet air of the spring sky. It was unusually warm out, considering it was March. Global warming strikes again, Jess thought sarcastically.
He flipped through a worn copy of 'Less than Zero' without really reading the words, his thoughts were on her. Always. It really wasn't a safe way to drive, considering he rarely paid attention to where he was going or who else occupied the road. He thought about the whole situation. His situation and concluded, as he had many times over, that it was completely his fault.
He had left, he had come back. He had courted her, and then he had failed, and then he had left. And now here he stood; a product of consequence. He wondered briefly if it was his heart or his head that hurt, and declared that it was both and that he was a sad, sappy fuck.
He thought about solutions, but they all seemed cheesy and beyond oven the most horrible paper-back romance novels. Or they didn't seem enough. Rory was the sort of girl who couldn't be wooed by flowers and chocolate and really good sex. Books and mixed tapes and witty conversations, probably. But he was beyond that point. He needed something really great, something completely irrational and over the top.
But he had nothing put a phone number and a quarter. A quarter that couldn't even make the call because she was long-distance by now. Maybe a collect call, but how romantic would that be? He highly doubted she would accept the charge.
He angrily jabbed out again at the radio's buttons, finding Sigur Ros' ambient melancholy doing little to improve his mood. He mentally debated between Elliott Smith and Rilo Kiley, deciding quickly on Jenny Lewis' foklternative, love sick country and pop ballads.
He rested his head back on the sticky vinyl seats, the moonlight slanting and illuminating the features of his face. He felt a sharp something- something jab unkindly into the back of his thigh. Jess twisted around in the seat, grappling beneath him and coming up with a cheap plastic blue pen. A small smile crossed his face as an idea struck him. Maybe he had a little more than a collect call, maybe he had a pen and a piece of paper and some postage stamps.
Chapter 2
Jess flipped through the radio stations, jabbing the poor little black buttons to death, finding all his pre-sets useless. He racked through the piles of CDs and tapes he had dumped on the passenger seat, taking slight nervous glances to the clear road ahead of him. It was late, he needed driving music and coffee or sleeping music and a place to pull over. Nearing a park, he decided on the latter.
The gravel crunched beneath the car wheels, the headlights illuminating silhouettes of tress and tourist information centers that probably smelt like grains and bird shit. He propped open the car door, jamming Sigur Ros' () into the car's cd player and letting the music flow out into the sweet air of the spring sky. It was unusually warm out, considering it was March. Global warming strikes again, Jess thought sarcastically.
He flipped through a worn copy of 'Less than Zero' without really reading the words, his thoughts were on her. Always. It really wasn't a safe way to drive, considering he rarely paid attention to where he was going or who else occupied the road. He thought about the whole situation. His situation and concluded, as he had many times over, that it was completely his fault.
He had left, he had come back. He had courted her, and then he had failed, and then he had left. And now here he stood; a product of consequence. He wondered briefly if it was his heart or his head that hurt, and declared that it was both and that he was a sad, sappy fuck.
He thought about solutions, but they all seemed cheesy and beyond oven the most horrible paper-back romance novels. Or they didn't seem enough. Rory was the sort of girl who couldn't be wooed by flowers and chocolate and really good sex. Books and mixed tapes and witty conversations, probably. But he was beyond that point. He needed something really great, something completely irrational and over the top.
But he had nothing put a phone number and a quarter. A quarter that couldn't even make the call because she was long-distance by now. Maybe a collect call, but how romantic would that be? He highly doubted she would accept the charge.
He angrily jabbed out again at the radio's buttons, finding Sigur Ros' ambient melancholy doing little to improve his mood. He mentally debated between Elliott Smith and Rilo Kiley, deciding quickly on Jenny Lewis' foklternative, love sick country and pop ballads.
He rested his head back on the sticky vinyl seats, the moonlight slanting and illuminating the features of his face. He felt a sharp something- something jab unkindly into the back of his thigh. Jess twisted around in the seat, grappling beneath him and coming up with a cheap plastic blue pen. A small smile crossed his face as an idea struck him. Maybe he had a little more than a collect call, maybe he had a pen and a piece of paper and some postage stamps.
