february fifteenth 🖤 conor oberst

one

Conor

Midnight. February 15, 2001.

She smiles at me from across the living room, looking at me like she isn't sure why I'm there.

And so it begins.

I'm standing off to the side in a corner when her eyes find me. Her bright pink lips curl into a smile before parting. She looks up at the guy standing next to her, says something to him, and shakes him off of her arm before beginning her journey towards my place of isolation.

I look down into my red cup, dread rising in my stomach.

I don't particularly want to be spoken to. I'd be perfectly content to just stay here like this, by myself, watching the snow fall outside the window as the cheap beer I'm drinking does its part in thawing out my insides.

Yeah, yeah, — I know that totally defeats the purpose of a party. I've heard it all before.

But this girl doesn't know that, with her tight-lipped smile and her white-blonde hair, shining bright beneath the dim light.

For whatever reason, it's clear that she's got her mind set on me.

No matter how close she's getting, I don't offer to run.

She's plenty close right now, showing no signs of making a detour towards a vacant bathroom or a better looking guy.

She stops right here. In my corner.

With me.

Cautiously, I lift my eyes from the bubbling warm beer in my hand. Unlike most of the people at this party for artsy, loser types, she's extremely attractive, — and conventionally so.

That does even more in the way of scaring me shitless.

What could this girl, — and her laughing blue eyes and perfectly smooth skin, — possibly want to do with me?

She parts her painted lips to speak.

"Hey, kid," she says. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be at home with your mama?"

She smiles a wide smile, revealing a row of teeth that are, to my surprise, rather crooked. "This party is for big boys, you know."

My stomach turns. I tighten my grip on my cup within my sweaty palm. Though I know that I'll most likely puke before the end of the night, I do not want it to be now, only halfway into my first drink.

"Actually," I say, hating the quaver of my own voice, "I just now turned twenty-one."

She stares at me, arms crossed over her chest, incredulous.

She doesn't believe me. That's nothing new, but I still despise it.

Assuming that I live that long, I'll be questioned for my admission into the retirement home.

"Really?" The two-syllable word falls from her mouth, slow, like she really is speaking to a child.

"Really," I confirm. I focus on convincing my body not to shake.

Jesus, Conor. Get a grip. She's just a bitchy girl. You dealt with plenty of those in high school... which was, in fact, years ago.

But my will feels so fragile with her icy eyes fixed on me, seeming to question every atom of my being. "Can you prove it?" she challenges.

"Yeah, actually." I switch my beer to my other hand, diggimg for the wallet in my pocket. I retrieve my driver's license and hand it to her. "See?"