stormy weather [on hold]

2 | two | deux

The bed in room 330 would have held both of them with room to spare, if they wanted that sort of thing. But in 318, the bed was a single bed, barely being able to hold one person, much less two. And this came to her advantage.

She just had to push him slightly and gravity did the rest. One moment, a drunk boy was on her bed, the next moment he was on the floor, moaning and groaning.

She peaked over the edge of her bed cautiously, not wanting to get punched in the face if he were an angry drunk. It's happened before. But what she saw was quite different from that image of a red-faced man, steam coming out his ears.

The boy was on his stomach, arms and legs flying everywhere. His legs were kicking and his arms were making a motion that looked oddly like swimming. He was banging his head against the floor.

She waited. And waited. But he wouldn't stop moving. He wouldn't stop banging his face against her hotel room floor.

The girl was started to get worried. So she did something that she probably would have never done to anyone, friend or no friend. She flipped him over and sat on his stomach. He opened his eyes and she saw lightning flash across his dark irises. In that moment, she knew that this boy was fascinating and something inside of her stirred, telling her that she needed this fascinating boy in her life, although she didn't have the smallest clue as to why.

"What are you doing?"

It was a shout into a void, a void called the human mind. It got lost in that void because all she could think was that his voice sounded like thunder. Thunder and lightning were very frightening came into her mind and she couldn't help but replace 'frightening ' with 'exciting'.

"What were you doing?"

She marvelled at how small and insignificant her voice sounded compared to his. The bang of summer thunder and the pitter-patter of spring rain.

"Hurting myself to lose consciousness."

"But why?"

"Because I want to."

"That's dumb."

"Says the girl who was in a tub full of ice cubes."

She looked away, embarrassed, although she knew she shouldn't be embarrassed. It was something she liked to do to stop feeling, like a poet writes poetry at three a.m or an artist draws in sliver but it comes out red.

"Also, can you get off of me?"

He didn't want to stay in this position anymore. His clothes were wet and uncomfortable and the way she was sitting on him was making his shirt ride up and her jeans rub on his stomach. And wet jeans on skin wasn't the nicest feeling in the world.

"Will you stop trying to become unconscious?"

"Will you stop trying to freeze yourself?"

"No."

"Good, because I'm not going to stop hurting myself. Now get off."

She simply shook her head. So he rolled on the ground until she fell off.

He arose on his feet unsteadily and saluted her. "Cheerio." then he was gone.

"Jerk!" she shouted after him, her spring rain turning into a fall storm.