The Starving Children Want Ice Cream

Mag

i just, i dunno, i'm just like really into the Smiths right now.

The text hung in my inbox like self-aware smoke from a pretentious pack of cigarettes. The girl behind it seemingly just as cloying. The same girl who, less than 24 hours ago, had declared her tatted up, punk-cut-in-orange, fourth-whiskey-down body to be "a carnival with nips" that she sincerely wanted me to take a turn on. The very same girl who approached me, alluring in a red cropped band tee with holes in all the right places, and a tattoo just beneath. It wasn't even like it was a good club; shit music, shit people, shit...atmosphere. Shit shit shit. But I was there anyway. For giggles. And she looked like a giggler.

So I found myself standing, reeling, (desperatedesperatedesperateyou're sodesperate) and suddenly she was a mile away. ('Cause that's what happens in clubs. My personal theory is that's it's the toxic haze of vape smoke, naked need, and perfumed sweat. Fucks your mind.) I pushed against bodies, crushed together with an acrid urgency of not long now and where'd the time go (is it 1 already?) and I need to be young tonight. I trekked the sticky quicksand floor of spilled drinks and crushed fries, waded the carpet of false promises for a lay. I needed a lay.
"I need you. Now," she said, and I swore, for just a second, that the words had come from me.

We danced, but I haven't got the ache in my thighs. We drank, but I didn't really taste it. And I'm not very hungover. She asked me things, but I don't remember what. We left, and it was to hers'.

(This is not love.)

Her bra had lace. It wasn't so much a bra as a boob-halter, a sling, really. Thin fabric pressed against her chest, held only by a gold clasp in the back. It was the same color as her shirt.
"I like your bra," I said. Her hair in her eyes, she shifted, smirking.
"I think you'd like it better off." Whispered, brushed against my ear. I felt it tingle. I felt everything.

(Do you really want this?)

"W-what's your name?"

(You don't know her name? How could you not know her name?)

"Amy."

Amy. "What do you like, Amy?"
"What do you mean?" Tingles.
"I mean...Amy...what do you like? What's your thing? Mine is p-pistachio ice cream."

(Was I sweating?)

"Yeah?" Punk-cut lost her bra. And her pants.

"Yeah. I've got," I swallowed, past the widening lump in my throat, "I've got socks."

"Oh yeah? What else?" Getting closer. Amy had a personal space problem.

"A bag; backpack. Some pencils. I think I have some underwear. My bed-bedroom walls are painted--", she kissed me.

(Oh shit.)

"--green." I bought a ticket.

...

She had posters on her ceiling.

...

"Mag's kind of an odd name, isn't it?" Amy lay across me, lounging. Uncomfortable.
"That's the point," I mumbled.
"S'it a nickname?"
"Uh, yep."
"Okay. You wanna hear some music?"
"Okay." She got up grunting, all elbows and knees. I remember her being more graceful the night before. On bent elbows I watched her pad, naked, to the dresser; she had a record player. Chrome plated, it sparkled as it opened, a record was placed, and began to play.