Drunk and Overheard
“I hear you’re bad at sex," she says to the boy. A chuckle bursts out but they don’t notice. No one ever notices the sometimes shy one posted against the wall, pants or no pants.
The boy looks startled a bit. She grins.
“Me? Who t(old) you that?” Pathetic, but who can blame the boy. The party noise eats the rest, so refocus to left eye corner. She’s still smiling, and so is the boy but less surely. Is that a pickup line? Her chin juts to a point and her black lipstick is good. Either way, what a fucking line. If this is a movie, the line is “Well, let me prove ‘em wrong.” But no one says that. This isn’t a movie.
She walks away and the boy goes back to looking for his coat in the coat mountain piled on the hallway couch. Canada Goose doesn’t win in these parts. The party is full of funny butts and sexy butts and uncomfortable losers with their pants on.
Sid walks by and slaps each naked hairy thigh, two laughs together and he’s gone. He’s here with one of the ones. Exposed in the hallway. Take a lap.
Took a lap and another shot. Living room still packed. Catie introduced Will. A golfer with another pointy chin. Couldn’t help imagining her letting him fuck her later after the cops come like she described over stir fry the other night. Alone on top of the stairs now sitting. Watching them leave and come and drink and talk. For the one to talk to. Height is (in)escapable power that feels good to have. Heels Castles Dunks Penthouse Swimming Pools.
One boy climbs and squeezes by in those new red briefs on the plastic person in American Apparel. Inconvenient mannequin boner. The weirdness in the greatness of underwear. The anger in the disappointment in people who tried to shut this joy down. Don’t come if you’re uncomfortable.
One girl in the bedroom to the right is barfing bad. Check if she’s OK? Instead, stay seated, assume her girlfriend is pulling back her hair. Like Aron in high school carrying one to the subway and riding uptown after washing the pavement a pink bottle of wine outside Gray's Papaya in SoHo. First time and second to last so far. Proud of it.
Why come to these? is the classic loner thought. It’s goddamn Valentine's Day, pants are off, and the ending is off to sleep. Came but didn’t come last time. Good play. Slinky down the stairs like Christmas lights twirled around the banister.
Too drunk for all of it.
A mural appears on the stair wall of a cute village in a rural valley. Orange roofs littered between green trees below a big blue sky and faint clouds. Like a big fat beautiful cliché. Kid with ‘80s grandpa glasses butts in. Black plastic choker. Pale see-through skin like a seal. Say what’s known, judge what’s not. Fuck it. Denial is healthy sometimes.
“Pretty amazing right?” His eyes look like condescending politicians. “German exchange students painted it like a hundred years ago supposedly.” He knows too.
“Looks like Germany yeah.” Never been, but fuck it without fucking it. The period squashes his smile like a bubble of silence in the sound growing fast. Murdering conversation intentionally is satisfying sometimes.
Take a piss. “Do you know where the bathroom is?” He points with skinny bones. “Thanks.”
Pissed on the seat and wiped it. A gold cased lipstick on the sink counter. Black on the mirror. A chuckle bursts and no one notices except the mirror. Eyes widen and vaseline lashes in the mirror. When you go back out, you’ll notice everyone again. The night girl with the black lipstick did one’s lips in the air — but next level is in the mirror. And on Wednesday sometime see her in the mirror at Cantinas with that Australian clementine. On a Wednesday.