Louder Than Words ✨ Guns N' Roses

07.

Before you ask, no. The kiss did not lead straight into some unrealistic we-automatically-love-each-other fairy tail.

Actually, in the moment, the days and weeks following the kiss were a little more than disappointing.

I'd started to draft this piece, writing down little bits and pieces of dialogue in my notebook and trying to sort out my feelings about him. It was the only way of keeping my thoughts of him under control, that gutwrenching passion a good kiss sparks is hard to quell.

The next time I saw Slash was two days later (much too long in my opinion) at Canter's. I was ordering Laurel's lunch and he was standing behind me, silent.

I turned and said hello, he signed hello back. And that I was looking bright as always. And then he grabbed his food and left. I was bitterly disappointed.

And our next few interactions were just like that, forced small talk and discomfort. Questions plagued me 24/7, did he not like me anymore? Was the kiss a drunken mistake? He couldn't have regretted it... right?

I tried to buckle down and focus on work, but then W thought I was avoiding him. And... I kinda was. Somehow I thought if I even looked at him the kiss would come tumbling right out of my mouth like verbal diarrhea, and I knew he'd never look at me the same.

I sat at my cubicle, hands covering my eyes and ears. I couldn't get the stupid kiss out of my head, the thought of his lips on mine, the sweet taste of him... how could he just leave me hanging like this? Was he just some kinda player? I mean, only a player would drive that kind of car-

"Chica! Hey!"

I jolted and looked up. Angelique was leaning over the wall of the cubicle.

"Yeah, sorry?"

"You feeling alright? You look kinda sweaty."

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "Yeah, I... I'm fine. Is that all?"

"No, um... did you accidentally let Houston out last night? My grandmother found him down the street this morning and gave me all types of shit for it."

Houston was the fat, sleepy old beagle that usually slept in the parlor.

"I might've, sorry. I'm just a little out of it these days."

"Yeah," she agreed reluctantly. "You have been for days. Is everything alright?"

"Funny story..."

"Intern!" I heard Laurel's familiar shriek from down the hall. I scrambled out of the cuticle and tried to compose myself, straightening my clothes before I arrived in the doorway of Laurel's office.

"Yes?"

"You're good at writing, aren't you girl?" She was sitting at her desk, authoritatively staring at me. "Well?"

"Yes Ma'am," I almost whispered.

She sighed. "You've been doing... a decent job for these past few weeks, I think you handle yourself nicely. My lunch is always on time."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"Listen. I've got an interview at the end of the week with some... Jon Bon... Jovi? He's a newcomer to this whole stupid synthetic hair craze that all the little girls like you are into these days, I figured I'd let you take it. I'll leave the address and time on your desk."

She went back to typing on her Macintosh, and I was left dumbfounded.

A... real... interview?

At the time I couldn't care less about it being Bon Jovi, I hardly knew who they were, and didn't know meeting Jon would be opening a whole new can of worms. I wasn't into the synthetic hair metal craze, but again, it wasn't about that. I was more than elated.