kiss me, kiss me, kiss me || charlie dalton

II ~ making worm meat

A glimpse through an interstice caught...

Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand.

●○●○●○●○●●○●○●○●○●●○●○●○●○●

Well, I stand corrected. Welton is the death of any and all anticipation, excitement, general enjoyment of life and its liberties, the pursuit of happiness, etcetera etcetera.

Sorry - seems my notes on this year's inaugural history lecture snuck its way in here.

We spent breakfast elbow-to-elbow in near silence as a presumptive mourning period. The worst part of my first day was the constant, nagging reminder that this was it. This was the schedule for the next three-hundred some days, doldrums on spin cycle, what little brain we had left dripping out of our ears.

In the afternoon I managed to worm my way through packed vein hallways and wriggle limp into the English classroom. The small nook was a teetering, wood-packed space buried in the back corner of the second floor. The walls were typically decoration-less but the bookshelves, ironically empty for the past three years of Welton life, had been absolutely packed with spine after spine after spine. Laid to rest in the room's shadow space the books took on the shadow of insecure students; not completely certain this was where they were supposed to be but paying attention nonetheless.

"And how's your day been, Juliet?" The dreaded phantom reached my desk, shadowing lingering even as his smile tried to chase it away.

"Miserable," I said, resolute. "Our first trig quiz is tomorrow. Tomorrow."

"It's a crime," Charlie agreed, giving me an empathetic nod and taking the next empty desk. The few feet aisle gap between us wasn't nearly enough to stop his whole body from vibrating towards me, unconscious knees bent West to mine like knobby arms on a broken compass. "I hope Meeks got a good sleep last night, 'cause it'll be the last time in a while."

"What? He's top of the class!"

"He can't sleep if I'm busting down his door for test answers."

"Dibs on Meeks!" I shouted, tongue tripping over itself in my haste.

"Hey Stiefel, foul play! Where's your sportsmanship?"

"You can't call dibs on a person, dickheads," Meeks said, turning around in his seat a few rows ahead to shoot us both half-hearted glares. "However - I will offer my services for a price."

"Name it, comrade." Charlie spread his arms out gleefully.

"A price of monetary value? Or an act of service?"

"Indentured servitude has a nice ring to it," Charlie mused. He sprawled more than sat, too much limb to fit properly in a seat and too much attitude to try. His hands itched on the tops of his thighs, spine straight back in his chair and his school jacket left unbuttoned. Navy fabrics folded atop each other like kneaded waves, putty dough you could push your fingers straight through. Add that with the breeze drifting in from the cracked window beside us, and he looked a bit of heaven. "I wonder if that was an option on the career quiz Counselor Goldstein gave us last semester."

"Definitely," I said. "What'd you get, gigolo?"

"Yeah, sure. And you got escort - no, sorry. A courtesan."

"Fuck off," I said, but I was laughing too hard for the words to hit.

"Both of you talk way too much," Meeks said with finale, turning back around as he shook his curly head.