BANALITY : Draco Malfoy

00

The brown liquid in my cup sloshes like it is the ocean in a thunderstorm, and my thoughts are hazy like misty rain. It is a warm day; it is the end of summer and even the night hasn't sucked away the heat. We are on the back porch. It's unlikely that the cops will be called for noise, but I'm ready to escape anyway.

I'm always ready to leave.

I only know Amanda and Ali, but they seem to know everyone. They laugh and giggle at every boy who even looks their way, and if anyone looks my way, it's only the most plastered boys whose eyes wander away from my two flatmates.

"That bloke keeps looking over at you," Amanda whispers.

"Who?" Ali's voice is loud, and her American accent is louder.

"Hush," Amanda shoves a sloppy finger against Ali's mouth. Ali mocks biting it, snapping her teeth, and they both laugh. Then, Amanda turns to me and puts her lips up to my ear. "Three o'clock."

My eyes glance over the direction she is pointing out. There are several people, so I can't really see who she is talking about. I let my eyes fall forward once more.

"You never talk to anyone," Ali says. "Go find him."

"I talk enough at work," I sigh. It's a lie, but they couldn't possibly know that.

"We're all going to be in classes again soon," Ali insists. "We should get to know each other."

She forgets that I do not take classes with them.

I am not keen on fighting with Ali, especially not an intoxicated and loud Ali, so I move through the crowd, heading in the direction Amanda indicated. I take a huge swig of my cup, only stopping to gasp for breathe.

That's when I catch him. The guy staring at me, sitting on a lawn chair. This must be some prank. He does not belong here. The guy's wearing a long-sleeve button-up and slacks, with dress shoes even. He has a five o'clock shadow carving his jawline into a razor's edge. His blonde hair is a mess. The closer I get, the more I see. Bags under his eyes, heavy and dark, dominate his face. His clothes are all wrinkled. He looks like he belongs to a support group for men who've recently been diagnosed with cancer, or who have been widowed.

He looks ill. I can't judge, because I must look sick too.

When I approach him, I don't know what I expect. He's still staring at me, but quickly breaks away eye contact when I'm finally within talking distance.

I clear my throat, and the fire of alcohol eats away at my insides.

He doesn't speak, instead lifting his cup up to his mouth and gulping it down. He chugs and chugs, liquid dripping down his chin. When he is finally done, he tosses the plastic cup aside. Then, he sticks out his leg so he can dig into his pocket. Out comes a silver flask, which he also begins to chug. His eyes squint, clearly something stronger than what was previously in his cup.

"Are you just going to ignore me?" I ask.

He lowers the flask, his expression sour. It's impossible to tell if my voice or the alcohol is what's making him squeamish, but regardless he still won't look at me.

"Maybe," he says, and then finally laughs. "If I can help it anyway."

"Are you negging me?" I ask him. "It's not going to work."

"Negging," he snorts, finally daring to let himself peak at me, before turning his attention back to his shining metal flask. "Sounds like a fake word."