Tee hee, second update in a day. Yay. Now the story's moving a bit. And as always, I appreciate reviews, and can never get enough of them.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. But that will soon change. I am at this point planning a large scale kidnapping. Anyone interested should hit me up.
1I'm on day two of my Tom Quincy rebellion, and am high on new found independence and no sleep. Sadie and I went out, and I splurged, splurged like I haven't done since My Sweet Time hit number one. Two days without sleep will numb you; after a while, almost all original thoughts are gone, you are left to fell, to observe, to touch– but never to contemplate. That's why I like not sleeping. It's the best excuse in the world for not anylizing all the crap going on in your life.
Sadie and I spent a million hours in the phone store, and I got a new cell, the first one since my not so sweet sixteen. It has the web, AIM, and a camera, plus other things listed in the manual that I am too buzzed to read right now.
Intellectually, I know that all these material things are exciting me way more than they should, but it's what Sadie calls "displacement theory". Let everything else push Lil Tommy Q right out of my little mind. Maybe that's how Sadie talked me into this club, because it sure as hell isn't my scene.
I have no idea what the hell I'm doing here, wearing this damn red dress that my sister picked out. Obviously. There's no way in hell I'd pick up a short dress by choice. A few guys have asked me to dance, and I've refused on the grounds that I can't dance. Or won't. Yes, won't. That's less damaging on the ego.
Across the bar, a guy is shooting me the eye. He's the seventh or eighth since Sadie left, and the only reason I'm giving him a second thought is because I know I've seen his eyes somewhere. They're cobalt blue, deep set, surrounded by long, dark lashes. He's looking through me; and I'm familiar with the feeling—a familiarity I don't like. He's here.
Upon closer inspection of the rest of the guys face, I can see clearly that he isn't—the hair is lighter, the nose is longer, and the lips aren't as full. But those eyes—they belonged to my former producer, even if the rest of his features didn't. I can't help but feeling like he's right across from me. A cheap, knock-off version, sure, but as close to the real thing as I am going to get. The guy gets up and begins walking toward me; I flip my newly red hair over one shoulder, switch my hips, and decide to meet him halfway.
"Ryan," he says.
"Jude," I reply.
When there is no yell of 'oh my god, you're Jude Harrison!' I figure I am in the clear, and stick out a hand for him to shake. He buys me a drink, a not dirty enough martini, which hits hard at first, and then adds to the recent buzz of nothingness in my head.
The conversation that follows is mediocre at best. The questions asked are throw away ones, but I'm not so much listening to what he's saying, but staring and wondering at those eyes and where I've seen them before.
When he asks me for a date, I hear myself saying yes before even considering the matter. As I leave the club, I wonder what possessed me to accept the offer—the fact that I haven't been on a real date in months, or that his eyes look just like Tommy's.