All Things Considered [🗸]

1. boyfriend shit

IF PAXTON IRVING doesn't stop clicking his fucking pen, I'm going to lose my goddamn shit.

Click.

The flicker of a grin, lips curved upwards. He's seated in the row in front of me, ball-point pen clasped between his fingers, black hair pulled back and eyes flickering back toward me. His eyes glint as they meet mine.

For reference, I'm not one to get angry quickly. My moms have always reminded me to word my thoughts, concerns, and frustrations. But fuck. 

Irving knows how to get on my every last nerve and then some.

Click.

He glances back at me once more. Sharp jaw, dark hair that reaches his shoulders and hazel eyes that are constantly in a state of lethargy. He constantly has this lazy look to them, as though he's not fully quite here or everything's fucking hilarious to him. 

Or he's high. There's a solid seventy-five percent probability of that being the case. 

Paxton has a nose ring, too. He's had it since eleventh grade. If people found him alluring in ninth and tenth grade, he absolutely attracted everyone within a ten mile radius as soon as he got that piercing.

He doesn't lift his gaze from me, just sort of hangs off the edge of his chair, that lazy look to his eyes again. His lips quirk. His pen clicks as his gaze remains unfailing. Bitch knows exactly what he's doing.

From my peripheral vision, I side-eye him.

The economics teacher is tear-inducing. Mrs. Graham. She's one of those short, middle-aged women with a receding hairline who teach about thirty percent of what actually ends up on the test and laughs as she slaps Cs onto her students' work.

Graham's an absolute gem.

My notes are spread out on my desk in front of me, but I can't fucking concentrate. It's hard enough that Mrs. Graham deadass speaks in monotone, but now I'm acutely aware of every single fucking sound in the room.

The little sounds always bother me, and once I hear them, I literally cannot unhear them. It's living hell and Paxton Irving knows it. Absolute bitch.

He's trying to piss me off. He's being doing so for almost eighteen years. I'm certain I hated that motherfucker in the womb, too.

As students shuffle their notes or text from behind their desks, Mrs. Graham droning from the front, I exhale. I glance at Irving's pen before my eyes flutter shut. Click one more time, I fucking dare you.

Paxton grins.

Click.

I exhale, eyes burning into him, "could you not?"