BAIRN: Matty Healy

052307

May 23rd, 2007

     I watched closely as Pete and Matty cut and weighed out the rocks; separating each measured amount into tiny jewelry bags, and cutting a few lines for themselves on the sly. (It wasn't just "a few," more like half the batch).
     There was something wrong with the portrayal of this scene, and it wasn't the copious amounts of cocaine and weed sprawled out in front of us on the coffee table. My baseball cap was on the table, buried under the pile of ziplock bags filled halfway with green. I wondered if they knew they'd sent my baseball cap to its grave the moment they flattened the crown of it. Probably not.

I sighed to myself and turned to Adam, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention. Much like myself to his shoulder, he was tapping away on his cellphone, regardless; he glanced up at me, muttering something incoherent before returning his attention to the screen.
     "Hold on," I understood the second time, "I'm texting George." I nodded.

   "What time they coming 'round? S'George bringing Tilly..or do I have to get her?" Matty chimed, not tearing his eyes from the powder-littered scale.
   Matilda was Matty's conquest of the month, and frankly, I wasn't sure what he saw in her—they had nothing in common aside from attending the same college, and oftentimes sharing a nickname.

     "Ehm..." Adam kept his eyes glued to his and George's text conversation, hovering in my peripheral vision, "Not sure. You'll have to call him," he shrugged. Matty scoffed and leaned into the couch, "Mate, you're fuckin' texting him." Adam just shrugged again,
     "I don't see how Matilda's arrival is any of my concern, Matty. Figure your shit out."

     Brilliant response.

     Matty muttered something to Adam and whacked him in the head, turning the empty fag packet beside him upside down and shaking his head. "Anyone got a smoke?" He shut his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, rolling his shoulders back.
     "I've got one," I whispered, opening the carton beside my baseball cap and reaching behind Adam to offer one.
     "Cheers Mace, d'you want to step out with me?" Matty took the entire packet from my hand and stood up.
     "Sure... you're giving that back, right?"

     He just shook his head and chuckled, smiling at me,
     "Smoking kills, love, I wouldn't make a habit of it. C'mon then."

     His eyes were greener than usual; today, they looked like deserts of glitter, reacting to every bit of light bouncing off them. And Matty looked fit, too. Granted, I could never see him that way, but I was sure he'd make Tilly squeal, with his slicked back hair and distressed leather jacket.

     I climbed over Adam's legs and grabbed Matty's arm, following him mindlessly to the sliding doors, and eventually, Pete's backyard.
     "Alright Mace?" I squinted my eyes at him behind my glasses, shrugging, "I suppose I'm doin' fine. You?"

     Matty glanced down at me and pressed his lips together around my cigarette, leaning forward to look me in the eyes. His cheeks softened as he exhaled the nicotine-ridden smoke inches away from my mouth, he smirked; plucking the fag from his own, and resting the same hand on the side of my face. The filter was warm with the radiating heat of his pale rose lips, it tickled my cheek and sent goosebumps all over my arms.
     "You're so fucking pretty Mae, you know that?"

     I tried shaking my head to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks, but Matty had a firm hold on me, and that only made me blush further. "None of that, love," he forced a nod and smiled, "that's what I like to see."
     I giggled, flashing a toothy grin, "A pretty smile for a pretty girl."

     What was he doing?

     "Here," his hand was hovering in front of my face now. I inhaled, watching the cherry brighten, and ran my frost-bitten hand down the black and grey fabric encasing Matty's arm. He licked his chapped lips as I quickly tugged the packet from his grip and pressed a kiss to the apple of his cheek.
   "Love you," I exhaled, cooing sarcastically at the messy-haired boy, though; I was honest.

   He grunted and stepped back, a simper gracing his childlike features,
     "Clever girl, aren't you?"

   Nodding smugly, I flipped the lid of the carton, and carefully curved my lips around the cigarette, as not to alter the state of my previously applied lipstick. I quite liked the maroon shade on myself; it complimented the freckles, fanned out over the bridge of my nose and beneath my eyes.
    "Do you like my lipstick?" I asked curiously, lighting the visible tobacco with Matty's royal blue lighter—which he had conveniently nestled alongside and in between the remaining thirteen or so cigarettes.

   "I do," he breathed, "it looks lovely on you, doesn't it? Matches your eyes."
   I blushed, even though I'd willingly fished for that compliment.

   Looking back down at the open packet, I bit my lip, noticing that the single cylinder I'd flipped over earlier in the day was still there. Superstitions were stupid. But still, I believed in them just as much as the next person.
   Matty, however; was clearly, obviously, evidently not the next person.