For The Tsuruoka Files: Mid-Week Blues-Buster
Prompt: Wang Dang Doodle
605 words
Notes: Won 1st place :D
She flips her hair, her mascara wand, pouting her lips as she applies the deep red stain. The bubblegum smacks against her teeth as she adjusts her top, sucking all the bad bits in, pushing all the good bits out.
"You sure he'll be there?" she asks me.
"He said he would be." And I hate him more than ever when he accepted the invitation she made me deliver.
She smiles at me through the mirror. She's got red on her teeth. She notices the downward flick of my eyes and looks. She sees it too and wipes the smear away. "I don't look stupid do I?"
"You look like you're ready to kill." Her apple cheeks heat to this beautiful shade of pink that almost matches the silk covering her skin. She asked me to help slip it on it was that tight. And the goose bumps on her arm still tantalize my fingertips with their ghostly memory.
She smacks her lips, her gum, one more time, and then grabs my hand. She holds my arm as we walk down the street, huddling closer when the cool night air becomes too much. Her hair smells like coconut all pressed up against my nose like that. I can't help it when I pull her closer. She thinks I'm cold, giggling, holding me tighter, whispering, "We're almost there."
He's already in a corner, surrounded by other pretty girls, holding one of those infamous red solo cups. Their eyes meet from across the room, and his eyes do this sort of sweep over her body, ending with that crooked smile across his face. She swoons. I hold her as she sways on her heels.
"Oh my god. He's so hot."
The other pretty girls sigh, annoyance playing across their face as he brushes aside their attempts, their touches, their little whispers, their offers. She notices, vibrating next to me, those red lips perking up into that perfect smile. When he's close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne, feel his heat coming off his body, she leaves me, smelling, feeling, it too. Her hands are so small in his as he holds them gently. First in the air and then against his chest.
I'm forgotten as they immerse themselves in a world of mindless chatter until the alcohol, the nerves, the courage can build up. Other boys come up to me, and I do my duty. Talking. Flirting. Batting my eyelashes. But she's always there. In the corner of my eye. I see it when he touches her cheek. When he kisses her palm. When he whispers words into her ear so naughty she blushes the same color as her lips.
He's probably calling her sexy. She isn't. She's more than that. He doesn't know that. She doesn't know that. But I do. And no on will ever know that I do. I think that breaks my heart more than when he leads her away, up the stairs, around the corner, so that her flash of pink disappears from my sight.
I already know the feeling of imagining, of creating what they're doing in the bedroom behind closed doors. Their kisses. Their touches. Their skin bare against the other's. And it hurts too much knowing that I'll never get to do that to her. Never show her. Never tell her.
I only have the hope that when it's all over, when he crushes her with callous words and goodnights, when they climb back down the stairs, she'll come into my arms, and I'll get to hold her for the night while her heart heals…unlike mine.