A Beautiful Life

Do What You Want to Do [Vitamin C]

As Andrew walked out of the dormitory and into the courtyard, he had one feverish thought invading his mind:

What the hell just happened?

It was insane. Bizarre. Kind of nice? But so fucking weird and surreal and just felt so wrong that he really wanted to take a hot shower. Or a cold one? Whatever he'd do, there was no way the image of Sakura's perfect tits would leave his mind anytime soon. He cursed himself for that extra second his eyes lingered. Damn they were nice. And damn him for still thinking about it.

He felt so acutely aware of his surroundings, of the chill that crept the air, pursing around his body in a delicate breeze. Stuffing his hands into his flannel jacket, he forced a deep inhale through his nose, feeling the sharp frost bite his nostrils. For the last weekend of October, it was mildly cold. It was also very empty, as he assumed most everyone had found their way to a party by now.

Empty, except for the small body that embraced the bench.

A short concrete bench, lacking a rail or backrest, just a cemented stub nestled between trees and a semi-working water fountain. And the body occupying it—petite, extended, lying down as if the rocky plane was a luxurious bed as her head swung off the edge. One leg bent, the other flopped on the surface. She could have been confused for dead if her foot wasn't tapping against the cement.

Black headphones nestled snug against her head and ears, connected to a portable cassette player that rested on her chest. He could hear the faint sound of muddled music, but not enough to decipher what she was listening to.

But in the darkness, there was enough light from the moon and stars (and the lamp posts surrounding them), for him to see her, to see the neon glisten of her hair, falling gently towards the grass, the black combat boots that clutched her ankles—or were actually too large for her petite frame. Light denim overalls draped her form, one of the straps undone haphazardly, and a white sweater hugged her torso beneath. She wore no jacket, but a shiver failed to trickle over her body.

Ashes of her cigarette fell like loose glitter, the stick grasped between her fingers. And as she exhaled, a gust of smoke slipped from her lips, and he noticed how delicately they puckered and how pink they were.

And fuck, because he realized it was fucking her. The girl from the smoker gang. The one he sometimes saw kicking the heavy bag at the gym. The same girl he had wanted to talk to for a while but she was fucking intimidating and looked like she'd eat his head off.

But watching her there, sitting alone in her cute overalls, Andrew contemplated for a moment. What would be the worst thing that could happen? This night had already been absolutely fucked. What would be the harm to put himself out there and just talk to her?

However, the dryness in his throat proved otherwise. It took him a second to gulp, to gather enough saliva to slightly relieve the uncomfortable feeling. And then he felt the rest of the results of his anxiety—heart accelerating, hollowness emptying his chest. Just go home. Go home. Enough weird things happened tonight.

But he found himself standing over her, and her eyes pierced him like an arrow to the heart.

A slender finger pressed a button on her walkman, and the muffled music stopped. No sound but the whispers of nature and the song of the crickets. She said nothing, made no movement. Only stared, her eyes large and unreadable, two bright cerulean gemstones with a fatal gleam.

Tugging at the collar of his jacket, Andrew hesitated. "Can I bum a cigarette?"

She blinked once. Twice. A slight twitch pulled at her lip. "You don't smoke."