it finally happened.. i finally posted something for my baby ship.. its growing up :)
this could be better bt ummm i havent posted in like a month so take this mess i just wrote all of in an hour—
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Cars aren't very comfortable unless you're using them properly. This is the first time I've ever tried sitting in the trunk of a car, sure, but my ass can tell you personally that it's uncomfortable and will never be comfortable.
It might be more comfortable than what was initially the plan- sitting on top of the trunk with him. Except I ended up being a little too short and a little too slippery to manage.
He's probably not going to let me live it down. Maybe thirty-five different overly sarcastic comments and jabs have come out of it already, and it may be funny, but I'm still peeved.
His feet touch the patchy grass, I can tell that much. Mine can't say the same, and I don't think he's noticed because he hasn't poked fun at me for it yet.
The first and second silences were a little awkward, but now it's comfortable. The night's weirdly warm- humid is probably the better word,- and dark. I can hardly even tell what he's doing, or if he's doing anything at all.
There's a quick light, the sharp scrape-click of his lighter, and he lights up what I think is the third cigarette he's smoked since we sat down.
"..How's lung cancer feel?" I blurt, and apparently it wasn't as bad as my brain very immediately scolds me for, because he's laughing harder than a pity laugh, or an awkward laugh to fill the silence.
"Tastes better than it feels." he manages to shoot back, and one of his legs leaves the ground to prop back up on the edge of.. god, I don't even know. The weird ledge under his car?
Anyone who knows anything about cars would beat my ass right now, but lucky for me, he's definitely not that.
"Does it really taste.. decent?" I don't know why I feel the need to keep my voice down, we're not even around any other people.
"Better than it smells." he shrugs, "Still pretty fucking awful, though."
He reaches back into the trunk and grabs for the bottle he's been taking fairly infrequent drinks out of, taking a quick swig before he gingerly sets it between us. A little closer to me, though.
"Here," he offers, and who am I to say no to free alcohol?
"..You just drank out of the bottle." I groan, taking it carefully in my hands.
"Scared you're gonna get cooties from me?" he muses, and a horrible giggle forces its way out of me. His own, much smoother one follows, and I spin the top off the bottle.
His eyes are definitely on me as I quickly tip back a bit of it, immediately hit by the burning taste like a truck. The glass lets out a quiet thunk when it's almost dropped back down next to me, and I have to put a hand over my mouth to keep from spitting.
"You really can't do anything, huh." he mocks, capping the bottle and watching me begrudgingly swallow down a mouthful of what tastes like gasoline.
Once it's down I roll my eyes and groan, just to make sure he gets the point. "I didn't think it'd be something that strong." and then, without thinking: "You seem more like a whiskey guy. Or scotch. Stuff like that."
"Gross." he hisses, "That shit doesn't hit you fast enough."
He takes another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke trailing aimlessly up into the air. There's probably nothing I hate more than the smell and feeling of taking in that gross shit, but it's stopped bothering me as much.
