mixtape (reddie)

December 7th, 1988

R.

I'm writing this in the cafeteria. It's been one day since our fight, and you aren't sitting with us today. Bill keeps asking if something happened, but Stan just shakes his head and gives me this sort of side-eye that makes me wonder if he knows. But you wouldn't tell him, would you?

Winter seems to be taking a toll on me. The snowstorms living within my head are icing over every single part of my brain, and it's just now occurring to me that you brought the fire that kept me warm. Now, there's an empty seat next to me, and I'm stuck with an abundance of food that I packed in my lunch for you.

I was thinking about you in second period today. I mean, I'm always thinking of you, but I was thinking... a lot about you. I was thinking about your sleek oil-spill eyes, your stretched canvas skin, even the paint splattered bruises on each protruding knuckle. I was thinking about your bathroom and how the cold tile felt beneath my feet, but more importantly, how your hands felt on my hips. How you looked up at me as I tended your wounds. How I looked beneath you as I got on my knees.

I was thinking about you so much that I forgot to take notes all throughout chem. Thankfully, Bill is going to let me come over and copy his after school, but I just don't want him asking what had me so distracted, because I really don't want to explain that I was too busy thinking about the night we met.

I love that night. That memory is held at a high level. I really, really love that night.

You were so nervous. So shy. It's hard to imagine you as the same boy I found sitting in that chair that night. You were timid and uncomfortable, nothing like your loud and vulgar personality. But you still appealed to me, something about your long fingers tapping out drum solos on the knees of your ripped jeans, or perhaps the wanderlust stars swirling in your teacup eyes. You looked bored, almost lost. You looked as if you were ready for adventure, but nobody in this shithole town would give it to you.

It is a bit uncharacteristic of me to approach strangers first, especially with this AIDs epidemic happening across the nation. But I saw you, recognized those moon owl eyes, and I remembered the way that your shoulder had aligned with my nose just so perfectly. That must have been fate calling for us, it must have. The second we collided in the pharmacy, I went and stood in the bathroom and tried to wipe my face clean. I couldn't understand why the red wasn't coming off my cheeks, but then it all made sense when I saw the infamous trashmouth walk into Ben's party-decorated basement.

You had a lack of adventure, and I wanted to try and be that. I know that I am just Eddie, the weakling, the runt of the group, the boy with as much medical issues as a stage 4 cancer patient, but I just wanted to try. The curve of your lips pulled me in, and I couldn't stay away. You were a bit of a forbidden fruit, my sweet peach nectarine.

I can't tell Bill any of this. He already knows I like you, I don't want him teasing me for just how much that admiration actually is. Even now, Stan keeps trying to peek over my shoulder to read these words about you, you're the boy who is now more focused on birds and Hebrew culture than aspirators and pharmacy trips.

Hold on, the bell just rang, so lunch is over. I'll finish this later. I hope you had a good lunch, wherever you ended up being. Hopefully soon you will forgive me and come back down to our table, because this seat is growing so very cold without you here to ignite the warmth.

Come flicker, my fire. You don't even have to be my twin flame, I just want to admire your glow from afar. Even if you're deadly to the touch.

Okay. Stan's telling me I'm going to be late. I'll finish this later.