Keep Me in Your Skin

December 7th, 2005

We were sixteen and stupid and at a party.

"I don't think so, buddy."

Those were the first words she said to me. I had a girlfriend that wasn't her, and yet I was there, trying to get Faith to come home with me. She kept asking me why I wasn't interested in her friends ("They're much better company than I am!"), but I wasn't having it. Her friends were loud and clingy and not what I wanted, while she was quiet and aloof and scolded me the moment I approached her.

I don't know how I managed to finally convince her to come out onto the back porch and have a smoke with me. It wasn't the result I'd started out hoping for, but I came to realize it would be the best that I'd get out of her. We shotgunned smoke and traded beers for a few hours, until I was tired and she was tipsy. That's when she really came alive, when the alcohol kicked in and sent a revving sensation through her bones. She tried to get me on the trampoline, but after I said no for the fifteenth time, she seemed bored of the idea anyway.

And then she suggested we go upstairs. She hadn't meant it the way I wanted, but that was okay. I was just so tired, and after spending hours with Faith and knowing I would never get the ultimate prize, I still somehow felt lucky just to be allowed to share her company. So I put out the cigarette and dumped the last of my beer and followed her up the stairs. My friends were wolf whistling and hers were shaking their heads and neither group seemed to believe their eyes. But we let them think what they want, because I was tired and she was tipsy.

Faith pulled me into the bed with her, said she couldn't be bothered with taking off her jeans because I was a strange boy and I might try something. I thought she might've been serious, but then she pressed her face into my side and laughed. We laid together in silence for what seemed like a long time, and just as I started to slip towards sleep, she rolled over so her cheek was pressed against my stomach.

"I know that you're dating Kenna," she whispered. I was too tired to reply, but I looked down at her lazily. "It's not like we're friends, but I'm just not that girl." She let the sentence hang there, before flipping my hand over and pressing her lips into my palm.

I pushed my other hand into her hair, took a deep breath, closed my eyes. "I know," I whispered finally, my voice rough and out of place with the moment. "I know."

We were sixteen and stupid and at a party.