sixty seconds

:pressure

Anthony woke me up a few hours later by sticking his wet finger into my ear, and after kicking his balls by reflex, apologizing profusely, contemplating kissing him, and deciding against it, I retrieved my own clothes off the bathroom floor, was urged by Anthony to keep Levi's shirt, was encouraged to eat dinner, steal a pillow, and a hairbrush, and was ushered out the door by him as he said 'Levi is coming and when Levi comes both literally and sexually you do not want to be near'. And I'm grateful. So very much. 

Because this time when I ended up on the street, my hair was fabulous. I must have walked around the entire neighborhood twice, passing the drug dealers and the hobos and the church choir more times than I'd care to. 

At one point, I just stop by Anthony's apartment building and stared at the doorway. Because it's familiar. At one point, I was certain I would marry Anthony. And at another point, I decided that wasn't what I wanted. I loved him and I slept with him and I felt comfortable enough around him to wear sweatpants and be a scrub and still feel good enough, but it wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't exciting enough anymore to hear his voice in the morning. And it's horrible, but true. I'll always remember him and his Taco Wednesday (because Tuesdays are overrated) and his horrible songs while washing the dishes and the way he looked at me. 

I'll also always remember that he isn't mine to remember anymore. I round a corner and sit on a bench for a while, my head in my hands. 

"We have to stop meeting like this." I raise my head and meet a pair of icy eyes. Then my eyes go up more and find a pair of familiar ones. Real ones. 

"Why does your shirt have a giant pair of eyes with really unsteady eyeliner application?" Van sits next to me and set his guitar case on his lap. 

"Why does your face look like it's been through a car wash consisting of cheese graters and hydrachloric acid? The world may never know." I scowl, keeping silent as he takes his guitar out and examines it. He catches me watching. "I accidentally let my roommate drive a Barbie convertible over it, and I'm testing to make sure I don't have to set his collection of Audrey Hepburn cupboards on fire."

"At least he has exceptional taste in dead women." I say. He slides his fingers along the strings and turns it over to look at the neck, then sighs. 

"Do you think this scratch gives it character?" He shows me a long jagged crack along the neck, deep but not lethal. I shift under his scrutiny. 

"I think it decreases it's value on Craigslist." He shrugs, then sets it in his lap and starts strumming, tuning, and repeating. 

"So you're alive another day. Found an oversized shirt that smells like Red by Marc Jacobs. Did your hair. Brushed your teeth. Then found me. Fate seems to be calling, for I seem not to recall giving you my number." I don't know how to respond to that, so I let him finish tuning.

"Thank you for yesterday. I might have frozen without you." He begins to play a song. 

"Highly unlikely." He murmurs. He closes his eyes. "I assume you're still homeless?" 

"Only slightly."

"Conversing with a boy you know to be on drugs, wandering the streets and sitting on benches with traces of chlamydia lingering on them; you're very wise."

I stay silent for a while, and he doesn't say anything. I turn to face him, but his eyes are closed, lashes sitting heavily on his cheekbones. His hat casts a shadow on his face, and I can see the trimmed, dark hair on the back of his head, but beyond that, I can see the emotion, liquid and pliant, playing on his face as his fingers move over the frets. Afraid to break his peace, I start standing. But his eye flicks open.

"I would stay. enjoy the song. Leave your credit card as a tip." I look at him blankly. "I'm kidding. You don't have to be so stiff around me. I'm basically lower on the social scale then Madonna's butt is on her thighs. If anything, I should be fanning you with a palm leaf, homeless or not." 

I face him, wondering if I can convey to him how grateful I am he said that. 

"That's a very interesting analogy. Care to elaborate?" 

"Madonna needs a lift. So do I, but they have Viagra for that, so I'm not worried." I wrinkle my nose. 

"That's--"

"Crude?"

"More like unnessecary. Young, hormonal boy meets young, hormonal world. Shouldn't be much of a struggle, no?" He stares right at me, and I feel color rising onto my cheeks. For a long moment, he just looks at me. And I feel as if he's pulling something out of me, something that holds me back. Until it's gone. And I look right back at him. "What?" 

"There's been a change in pressure // I'm never gonna lie to you." I raise an eyebrow. "Sometimes lyrics are meant to be expressed through talking. Melodies overlay the raw meaning behind the words an artist paints. I'm willing to be honest with you." I can only blink. "Truth is, my name is actually Harrison. Van stands for Vagina Annihilating Nobleman. Very fitting, if you ask me." I can't help myself; I laugh. 

"That's very creative." He nods, and a silence passes, filled only the sound of his music stretching far beyond where we're sitting. "I can give you your flannel back, if you want." One side of his mouth twists up. 

"It's okay. Clashes with my outfit, anyways." 

"Regardless, thanks. A lot." He strums the last chord. 

"Not a bother. Never a bother. Never will be. Until next time, Blair. Hopefully instead of that bitch Fate, you call me this time around." 

a/n 

why do i always promise updates but then give them like seventy years later

I'M SORRY PLEASE UNDERSTAND MY LOVE FOR YOU EXTENDS FURTHER THAN THE RAYS OF THE SUN EVER CAN. 

until nexttime, my loves.

#gratata

-sophie