By the time the sun finally sets you've probably showered nearly three times, just to get the stench of other people's perfumes and barbecue smoke out of your clothes. It's when one of your cousins dropped a red popsicle on your white shirt that you said 'fuck it' and pulled on an oversized tee and athletic shorts. Who's going to see you this late at night? Everyone is going to be staring at the fireworks in the sky. Frankly, you can't wait until it's over and everyone scatters like roaches because they don't want to be the ones to help clean up the field. You can usually get one or two funny snapchat videos off it.
You hadn't seen Erik again for hours and your more irrational brain has you wondering if he even existed; if he was some product your mind created out of sheer boredom and loneliness. After all, he was basically every fine ass hood dude fantasy you've ever had; even with the added attribute of intimidating the hell everyone with his presence. It's stupid, you know, but that's why it's a fantasy.
For the past few hours you and your girls have been crowded into the guest bedroom of your parents' house eating and gossipping like you always do. In the presence of your best friends you have no problem grossly licking barbecue sauce off your fingers, or trying to use your acrylic nails to then pick meat out of your teeth. There's none of that performative shit you always feel obligated to do in front of guys.
And speaking of which.
Kayla eyes you from the foot of the bed, training her cell phone at you. You're not entirely sure she's filming you until she says, "-and here we observe _____, freshly showered and dressed in dick appointment shorts even though she swears she doesn't have one."
"I don't!" you reply honestly, laughing. "I swear I don't. At least I don't think so. Anyway; these are comfortable and all my other shit is packed up!"
Sydney tosses a balled up napkin at you and goes, "Yeah, sure. We heard him say you have a fat ass, and that's facts, but it's almost 10 o clock and you got on these shorts? C'mon, slim thick, we aren't stupid."
You scoff at their teasing and go to stand in the mirror. The shorts, black and with a white stripe on either side, don't seem especially sexy to you at all. You've probably been wearing ones just like it since your freshman high school gym class (the fact that you've only been doing squats since a few months ago is irrelevant). Thing One and Thing Two proceed to talk loudly about how big his dick would probably be, forcing you to bark at them to shut up as the three of you make your way downstairs and outside. Luckily your parents are nowhere to be found.
Outside you can hear the shouting of someone saying the fireworks are starting so you hurry up and lead your recently fed dog into the basement. With the tv on and the upstairs door closed it's basically soundproof down here; and considering your big bad pit bull is scared to death of loud noises it's perfect.
On the way out the back door you snag a pair of flip flops to try and give your aching feet a rest. Doc Martens may be the best grungy, industrial throwback you own, but they're hell on the feet while you break them in. You'd only had them on a few hours before a blister had formed and bled on your left big toe. Screwed up knee, screwed up feet. Today has been perfect to you. Despite the many shitty things that happened after you had to leave, you've kept from snapping solely for the big fireworks show tonight. It's always your favorite part of the barbecue.
Several failures to get a group harmony on 'Happy Birthday' to your cousins and aunts nearly gave you a whole aneurysm but you can't wait to watch the disaster on facebook later.
Outside, the crowd has definitely thinned out; what remains scattered around in groups, chilling out with drinks in their hands or lighting the dark street with their cigarettes. Several of your cousins had tried to hop in the car with you earlier, because usually when you got in the car during these, it'd be for one thing. But you're too broke to buy weed, and too skittish to get it from a 'guy' when you'd gotten a dispensary card a year ago to help you get through the anxiety ridden days following your breakup. Afterwards, you barely indulged, even when your friends offered it. You laugh a lot when you're high; and you kind of hate your laugh.
