Morphine
Her- The Questions
I had freed myself.
I had moved on.
I had fallen for someone new.
And THEN he asked.
How could I refuse?
Haven’t I wanted this? To have him? To see him from somewhere other than behind the bushes?
Why am I finding such a moot point now?
Then again, there’s no proof he wants me. Just my party. I’ll pretend.
“You’re awake.” Samuel says softly into my hair, late Wednesday afternoon. I am going to earn the word ‘naughty.’ He’s staying the night. My parents are in France. Mrs. Jaime has the night off.
“As are you.”
“Yes, but I should be getting out.”
“What… Why?”
“Work. Only from seven to nine, but alas, dear one, I still have to go.”
“No!” I yell and pounce.
He misses work, saying I’m like some kind of drug that he can’t get out of his system. We make a quiche and watch some cutesy cartoon before I shove him back onto the bed, wearing nothing but that bowler hat. I’m going to earn ‘naughty.’
“Move in with me.” I say, early in the morning, watching the sunrise and his eyelashes flutter.
“I’m sorry?”
“When you graduate, you should live here with me.”
“Okay.” And Samuel Atwood knows I’d ask him to marry me if my parents would approve it so young.
We’d go to Egypt to watch the Pyramids. We’d see them falling apart and laugh, laying at the base of the Sphinx and staying forever. The sand would cover our bodies and we’d get unburied fifty years later, posthumously famous. Famous for dying.
If that’s all it takes to be famous, just kill me now.
He wouldn’t notice. He’d hear that the Scary Girl died and say ‘oh, the devastation,’ then go screw his girlfriend in a bathroom stall.
Or maybe he has some depth to him? Maybe he’s coming for the scenery? Everyone IS more aesthetic in noire.
Why did he speak to me?
I had moved on.
I had fallen for someone new.
And THEN he asked.
How could I refuse?
Haven’t I wanted this? To have him? To see him from somewhere other than behind the bushes?
Why am I finding such a moot point now?
Then again, there’s no proof he wants me. Just my party. I’ll pretend.
“You’re awake.” Samuel says softly into my hair, late Wednesday afternoon. I am going to earn the word ‘naughty.’ He’s staying the night. My parents are in France. Mrs. Jaime has the night off.
“As are you.”
“Yes, but I should be getting out.”
“What… Why?”
“Work. Only from seven to nine, but alas, dear one, I still have to go.”
“No!” I yell and pounce.
He misses work, saying I’m like some kind of drug that he can’t get out of his system. We make a quiche and watch some cutesy cartoon before I shove him back onto the bed, wearing nothing but that bowler hat. I’m going to earn ‘naughty.’
“Move in with me.” I say, early in the morning, watching the sunrise and his eyelashes flutter.
“I’m sorry?”
“When you graduate, you should live here with me.”
“Okay.” And Samuel Atwood knows I’d ask him to marry me if my parents would approve it so young.
We’d go to Egypt to watch the Pyramids. We’d see them falling apart and laugh, laying at the base of the Sphinx and staying forever. The sand would cover our bodies and we’d get unburied fifty years later, posthumously famous. Famous for dying.
If that’s all it takes to be famous, just kill me now.
He wouldn’t notice. He’d hear that the Scary Girl died and say ‘oh, the devastation,’ then go screw his girlfriend in a bathroom stall.
Or maybe he has some depth to him? Maybe he’s coming for the scenery? Everyone IS more aesthetic in noire.
Why did he speak to me?