I'M NOT ADRIFT | Eminem

Paper Flowers

"Yo, get ma girl a French Martini"
I don't know what that tastes like.
I told him to just order me something he thought I'd like.
I have a very bleak relationship with alcohol.
I've never taken much interest in it.
That's probably saved me a lot of struggle.
Even if I was interested in it, what was the point of drinking alone?
It's not like I had many friends.
Besides, I wouldn't let myself.
I was too scared.

Bright blue and purple lights mesh into one another from above us.
Let Niggas Know by Threat is playing.
Marshall is lip syncing to it, grinning at me as he makes gestures with his hands,
I watch his beautiful blue eyes gleam confidently, soft rosy lips moving with the motions of the lyrics.

I giggle widely at him, desperately trying to dance along, wiggling my body awkwardly.
Just when I think the song is fading out, Marshall grabs my hands and dramatically starts swinging them back and forth.
"Up above the world so high, like the stars up in the sky, I'm funky with the flow" he proceeds to sing along to these lyrics out loud, shouting out the spin on Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

He reminds me of myself when I would feel the numb, delicious intoxication of the days with early med doses.
First baby doses.
Twenty five.
Still as eccentric as ever.
Fifty.
Tired as fuck in the morning but insanely manic and delusional happy in the later hours.
Then seventy-five.
Then one-hundred.
Then it just kept getting higher and higher.

I try to act in a way I would want myself to.
If that makes any sense.
I hold onto his hands tight, swinging them side to side with him.
I don't know the lyrics.
I just desperately try to lip sync to the parts I do remember from them happening previously in the song.
I keep a smile on my face.
It's important to look like you're enjoying yourself.
Sometimes this desire outweighs the actual enjoyment you would feel if you didn't worry about it.
It's like giving someone paper flowers.
They're cool and all but they're not real.
They're made out of paper.
They're fake.
Sure they're made from the paper of the most famous philosophical works, and if you looked hard enough, you could read profound quotes, but ultimately, they're still not real.

The song ends, the French Martini arrives, stark contrast to Marshall's cognac.
People Are People by Depeche Mode comes on.
I'm in a frozen sort of shock, but a good shock nonetheless.
I fucking love Depeche Mode.
"Oooooooo Depeche Mode!!!" I squeal in a girlish and over-exaggerated fashion.
I get a little berserk when I hear music I like.

"Oh fuck" he finds my reaction hilarious, cracking out in a chuckle, arm resting on the bar as he keeps his eyes on me.

"People are People so why should it be? You and I should get along so awfully!!"
I don't even care that we'll abandon our drinks, I grab his wrist and drag him over to the dance floor.
Now I'm handing him real flowers.
I move my hips to the industrial synth sounds the best I can.
I don't care if he watches me or not.
I find it mandatory to dance.
Even if I do a horrible job.
"So we're different colors, and we're different breeds. And different people have different needs."
I'm running my hands up my body desperately, my psychology loving brain eating up the lyrics like they're gospel.
I keep my eyes locked on his, displaying my confidence in the words.
His eyes scan over my body, lip tugging up in an intrigued expression.
His eyebrow raises, eyes inquisitive and keen on seeing every part of me in this moment.
"It's obvious you hate me, though I've done nothing wrong, I've never even met ya so what could I have done?"
Hands on my hips, I jerk them left and right to the sharp bang of the beat.
I watch his tongue slide along his bottom lip, spelling infatuation or a strange sense of lust as his eyes memorize my form, boring into me.