ETA - Brittany, you are a star. Thanks.
. . . . . . . .
Maybe people get used to the way things have always been, you know?
Maybe a person can learn a billion ways to kiss, to touch, to grope around in the dark - but never learn a single way to stick around. Maybe those song lyrics are always right. Maybe 'once bitten, twice shy' applies all the time.
Maybe she just cannot love anyone.
. . . . . . . . .
Everyone else is dancing. They all look so good - drunk and loose - and she'd love to be just like them. A little reckless, a little stupid, but still a kind face to look upon when a mirror is opposite - she'd love to be like them tonight.
Instead, she is as she usually is.
Apart from the rest and resisting offers, bottle in hand as her hip pushes into the edge of the bar. Apart from this club. Apart from this entire night.
She is not a part of anything.
"It gets boring, doesn't it?"
Another line from smirking lips and warm eyes and she won't spare a glance at this voice that sidles up. Another line from some girl. Another line from a would-be fuck.
"Yep."
And nothing more is said.
Thankfully.
. . . . . . . . .
She is pulled forth, sweaty hands and stale breath and tipsy laughter, into the lights. The music is too loud, causing vibrations to echo up and into the soles of her shoes.
Some of them sit and watch.
Some of them grind on each other.
Some of them stare and make attempts at connection.
She catches a few gazes.
She recognizes a few faces.
Faces turned up in ecstasy, bought and paid for with false interest - but they know about this game, right? They all know about this fun and hollow little game, don't they?
Lookin' so pretty on the floor. Aching for a lover. Stumble out the door and fall onto a bed and drive that repetitive point home.
Smirking-lips-and-warm-eyes watches from the bar, too. Would-be-fuck isn't letting go so easily. And so she stares in return, not with a smile and certainly not with an invitation, running a gaze from the cuff of jeans to a familiar studded belt to bare shoulders.
Smirking-lips-and-warm-eyes looks like every other girl in the world.
Fuck you, Rihanna.
No one is that special.
. . . . . . . . .
Three in the morning and things are winding down.
Fights are breaking out. Too many faces are filled with tears. Too many mouths are slack from a lack of water and too many pills.
Too much of this is a rerun and she breaks away from a group of over-eager students, their high-pitched joy about finding a Denny's to soak up the alcohol grating on her nerves.
Someone is hanging happily off of their steady, like notes passed in a classroom, and that kind of attention is so far gone from her life. Those days are so fucking gone, days of hands that hold and promises to be kept. Days of mothers who are faithful and fathers who are forgiving - yea, those days are done.
As done as this night.
As done as her legs, walking slowly past the bar, walking slowly past would-be-fuck, too.
"Hey again."
She shakes her head tiredly and something in the move strips away a bit of the callousness, allowing a second of acknowledgement to pass between them.
"Hi."
But she keeps on walking.
She doesn't know how to give in anymore.
At least, not tonight.
Tonight, Spencer just wants to go home.
. . . . . . . . .
Maybe it is the push of a staple into paper. Maybe it is the sound of coffee dripping down.
Maybe it is the click-click-click of the keyboards. Maybe it is the crush of traffic outside.
Maybe it is apathy after all.
This job was never her idea, though. This life wasn't her idea either.
They ask her to join in the reindeer games once more and she'd rather go on her own.
She'd rather skirt the corners of another establishment and pick up someone for the evening. She'd rather bury her tongue, along with her indifference, in some stranger.
She'd rather feel nothing and then be surprised when she feels something.
. . . . . . . . .
Ah, a new outfit this time around. No longer the dyke uniform of the day. She nods her head imperceptibly in approval of the long-sleeved top - with sleeves rolled up - and the pants so obviously broken in - frayed patches like pale scars in the red light.
It's better like this, too. Besides, it is her turn to approach and make contact. It's her turn to say something that could be clever, could be sexy, could be blunt.
It's her turn to get turned down or turned on.
"Do you want to dance?"
Smirking-lips-and-warm-eyes looks over and one eyebrow raises up in question.
"Sure."
Spencer shares a tiny smirk of her own and taps the counter a couple of times to get the bartender's focus.
"Too bad..."
Smirking-lips is sporting a confused expression, so Spencer leans in, getting close enough to make things very clear.
"...That's too bad because dancing is the last thing I want to do with you."
Would-be-fuck is about to be will-be-fucked, if they understand one another.
If this girl understands what Spencer is shouting in such a soft and cool tone.
If this girl understands this sort of thing at all. If this girl knows how to play.
. . . . . . . . .
She hails the cab. She pays for the trip. She unlocks the door. She kicks off her shoes and she offers beer and she leans against the wall in the living room.
Smirking-lips-and-warm-eyes has a name.
Spencer does her best to not remember it even now.
Even as this girl comes nearer and stops just short of touching, even as they share oxygen and increased body heat, even as one of them breaks this stand-off and captures a mouth.
She doesn't need to know a name now.
. . . . . . . . .
The methodical mind performs so well, gears turning with ease, and clothes are removed with eyes closed. They turn corners and coast into the bedroom, not a bump along the way.
No need to turn on a light, no need to worry about who will be top or bottom.
This is the simple part, you see, this is how well she knows the female form.
You push the shirt up and slide it off. You tug at pants. You unhook the bra.
You always save the best for last.
You always lay down slowly. You always graze the skin, snake-like in your pursuit.
She does this so often, it might as well be her real profession.
Then there is the animal mind, waking up and growling and shaking the damn trees. It stalks around so relentlessly and is ready to pounce, smelling the tell-tell signs of sweat and arousal.
The animal side of you nips at the flesh. This wild part of you pants when fingers tease over
sensitive areas. This beast, this rude and wanton entity, is savage with its want - bucking hips and questing thrusts, seeking something hidden in between some girl's thighs.
She does this so often, it might as well be her real self.
And smirking-lips-and-warm-eyes is so close, groaning and whimpering and pleading with every move made, no longer a waste of space in some dive but a girl coming to life against these sheets.
This is what she waits for, when it is good, when it is perfect.
When she is close. When the girl is getting more and more desperate.
This is what she needs, when the stomach tightens, when pleasure just tumbles out.
When the goals are the same. When she gives and someone takes.
This is what it is all about.
. . . . . . . . .
Maybe she should move to a new city. Maybe she should leave cities all together.
This concrete no longer makes her feel new. These buildings no longer make her feel important. She used to daydream about being Mary Tyler Moore, tossing her hat into the cold Minneapolis air - a woman of independent longings, ready to take on the world.
But it is just streets. It is just names and faces and nothing more.
Maybe she should move back to Ohio. Maybe she should call up that mother and say 'sorry'.
Maybe she should ask about her brothers. Maybe she should be a better person.
But these are just thoughts among many thoughts.
It's just the morning after having sex, the bed long cold and the girl long gone.
. . . . . . . . .
Everyone else is dancing.
Every weekend it is the same thing. And she isn't a part of this, though they all seem to think that she is enjoying herself. Otherwise, why would she be here, right?
Why is she here? Why did she join them? Why doesn't she just go home?
There is a bottle in her hand. The bar pushes into her hip. The lights spin and flash. The music is too loud. The bodies move. Some of the faces are new but most of them are not so new.
Everyone else is dancing.
And here she is, apart from the whole damn universe.
"Bored again, hmm?"
Smirking lips. Warm eyes. Already fucked. Now the allure and the tediousness is over, so she can look over and shrug her shoulders, take a sip from that bottle.
"I'm not much for hanging out with others."
Smirking turns to grinning and a head of brunette hair nodding in agreement.
"Me neither."
She finishes the beer. She orders another one. The girl beside her shifts that warm gaze from those warm eyes back to the mass of people around them, resting elbows on the bar and one hand holding an empty shot glass.
"Want to get out of here?"
There's that sought after feeling, that moment when good ol' nothing trips and something surprises her, something catches her off guard and there isn't a plan to fall back on.
All because Spencer did the asking.
. . . . . . . . .
"Do you even remember my name?"
The park is quiet, all the tourists in their hotels and all the bums wrapped up in newspapers for the night, so she sits on this bench and sighs peacefully.
They could have gone back to her place.
They could be touching right now. They might still do just that.
The girl crosses her legs at the ankle, all stretched out, but the arms stay crossed and the head stays slightly tilted - ready to talk, ready to listen, ready to stare at the darkened ground.
She remembers some names. She recalls some lovers. She hangs on to some passing memories and wishes she did not. She lingers when she should leave. She lurks when she should remove the shadows.
And, no, she does not remember this girl's name at all.
But, after tonight, Spencer is sure that she'll never forget it.
"Tell it to me again."
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