Coup De Foudre

bruine

"How wonderful life is while you're in the world..." - Elton John

When I first stepped into your house, my initial thought was, drugs. Now I'm not saying you're an addict, but let's be real, you had a lot of marijuana. Your desk had papers splayed out all over, you had a few smokes in weird places - probably hiding them from your parents, you had books piled up on one another, spines reading, To Kill A Mockingbird, A Wrinkle in Time, The Outsiders. Your walls were painted in baby blue, cluttered with Elton John and Neil Young posters. I accidentally snorted out loud. When I did this, you turned to me. "What?" you smirked, "Don't like my music?"

"I like it, I just think it's generic." It's hard to find someone to have a good debate about music with. You crossed your arms defensively.

"Oh? And what music do you listen to?"

I picked up your copy of The Outsiders "Mostly The Beatles, Bowie's cool. You know... S.E Hinton was 17 when she published this book, but she started writing it when she was 15."

"Everyone knows that." You turned your back to me. "I'm just going to grab a few things. Like, my necessities." You grabbed a backpack and shoved a few cassettes in.

"Necessities? Cassettes?" I raised a brow.

"Don't judge me," you said. "I'm capable of shit, remember?"

You pulled open a drawer and threw most of its contents in as well, plus some scraps of paper and some clothes. I kept your book.

You took me to your kitchen where we passed your parents, sitting in your living room, watching TV.

"Tu vas où, ma Chérie?" your mom said to you. I wish I took fucking French instead of Spanish.

"Le cinéma, Maman. Je peux prendre de l'argent?" Your mom nodded. You smiled at her and kissed her cheek goodbye. On our way out, you stole every bit of cash in the cookie jar and swiped the car keys.

When we left, it had started to rain. "You drive," you insisted. "I've already killed one person."

You slid me your keys and I grabbed them, starting the vehicle.

After an awkward twenty minutes of driving in silence, I asked for your name.

"I'm Océane," you said. "And you are?"

I didn't need to look at you to know that you were looking at me. "Timothy. Nice to be on first name basis with you, Ocean."

"Océane. Not Ocean. It's French."

More silence. You brought a joint to your lips and then began to light it. "Want one?"

"No, thanks. I don't drive high."

"Fair enough."

I focused on the road as Your Song started playing. "Y'know, Ocean, Elton isn't all that bad."

"He's a fucking legend," you said.

The gentle lyrics of the song didn't really fit your character. Then again, you were far too calm for the situation at hand. Almost as if it weren't the first time you'd murdered someone.