Casually Dropping A Line

It’s soft around him, gentle touches and warmth, white sheets, silky hair, too-bright light. His eyelids are still shut but the glowing orange behind them tells him that it’s daytime, sadly. He really needs an excuse to sleep more.

He turns around in the unfamiliar bed (this person still has a comforter, while he stripped his off in favor of the warming weather) away from the window and tries to crack open an eye. The light is blurred by mists of alcohol in his retina; there’s a hammer against his skull and he tenses up, shuddering. Hangovers are the product of the devil’s medicine, he’s sure of it.

Well, Alex thinks to himself, better get this over with. There’s a strange twinge of something in his chest as he stands up, eyes barely open, grappling the floor for scraps of fabric that might just fit him. He pulls on his boxers, jeans, and hoodie, though he can’t seem to find his shirt or his belt. Or his shoes. Which might be a problem.

Throughout the whole ordeal he makes a point not to look at the person that he was just tangled with in those sheets. He doesn’t wonder whether they were good last night, if it was someone he knows, or even his worst enemy.

But his mind eventually speeds up like an old film projector and the sepia pictures begin to flow into each other just as he’s pulling on his sneakers. Based off the slight burn in his thighs and the depth of his sleep last night it’s clear it was a good experience for him. He finds his belt draped over her headboard and loops it through his jeans just as she shifts in the bed. His heart speeds up.

Oh, fuck. Lisa. His good friend— and the girl he was sure he had been falling for.

Alex shakes his head, grabbing his shirt and stepping over a few breathing corpses on his way out. He’ll think about this once he’s less hungover.

He checks his phone; it’s about eight o’clock in the morning. He’s still doing his belt and putting on his shirt as he walks down the main street, earning a few dirty looks from passing commuters. He can’t find it in himself to give two shits, though, because he just fucked his friend at a house party and has no idea as to how she’ll react or if she even remembers.

That sort of cliché is only supposed to happen in movies and bad novels, he thinks as he stops in front of a small bookstore/coffee shop. The place is called “Despicable Fantasy”; he’s always liked it because its name sounds like the name of a band, or a sex shop. Both things he’s fascinated by.

It’s packed inside; smells sort of dusty, like a library or his grandmother’s house, with lingering notes of caffeine in the air. Shelves of old books line one wall next to vintage lamps and creaky windows. He’s pretty sure this place was a country-style tavern a few years back. The plush couches and wooden chairs are nearly all occupied. He runs a hand through his chocolate-colored hair and orders a medium coffee with a bagel. Scanning the duct-taped spines of the books he only recognizes a few titles; he doesn’t really read (he’s like any 17 year-old; parties, plays music, and tries to be poetic while doing both) but this Saturday morning calls for a distraction. Romeo and Juliet it is, then. He sits down at the only available table, right between two uptight business women and one seemingly homeless man.

Most people would complain about the crowdedness of the place but he enjoys it. Makes him feel less alone, which is why he typically spends his evenings performing for or being part of one sweaty, raspy-voiced mass.

He gets to Act III, Scene I when he hears, “Do you mind if I sit here? The other tables are full.”

Alex raises a thick eyebrow and looks her up and down. She’s wearing a charcoal pea-coat, leather boots and patterned black leggings, something clearly too warm (in his opinion) for March weather in Baltimore. Her bleach-blonde hair has a centimeter or so of mousy brown roots showing, the rest of the layered strands tied into a messy bun. She’s carrying a blue messenger bag over her shoulder and a coffee in her left hand.

He moves up, her outfit disappointingly chaste. Surely she’d be more of a burlesque beauty as opposed to a dingy Forever 21 addict, but his breath catches when he sees her face. It isn’t perfect; Marilyn Monroe isn’t asking to sit with him in a coffee shop, there are noticeable circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could hide, facial features a little unbalanced. But her teeth are white pearls against smooth alabaster skin and her eyes sparkle like blue napalm, one arch painted over each, strokes from an inky calligraphy brush. Her cheekbones sit high atop her visage, lips as red as strawberries, the smooth column of her throat leading to the collar of her coat.

She stops smiling and looks tentatively at him, as if he’s a scared mouse in a cage. He shakes his head quickly, “Not at all.” There’s something about her that seems timeless. She’s twenty at the most, he guesses, but he strangely feels the need to act mature as to not make a fool of himself.

He sighs and dismisses the thought while she’s pulling out the chair and taking papers out of her bag. This isn’t about impressing some model he’s sitting with at a coffee shop. This is about him moping over what he’s going to do with Lisa.

She sets a notebook down on the table and begins to write. He finishes up his bagel and makes a decided effort not to stare at her, breezing through Act III and reaching Act IV in virtually no time at all.

“Romeo and Juliet, huh?”

He glances up at her. She’s nibbling at the top of her pen and giving him a questioning stare.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t need to be defensive, does he? It’s a romance, sure, but more of a tragedy regardless. Not to mention that everyone knows every highschooler needs to read it. He could just pass it off as that.

“School?”

“Mhm.” Alex smacks his lips and tries to look back down at the page but the words just look like someone splattered a bottle of ink onto every piece of paper. He squints.

She crosses her thin legs, scribbling some more into her notebook before pressing her lips together in amusement. “You don’t look like a ninth grader, kid.”

And this is the part where his ears would’ve turned a brilliant shade of vermillion, you know, if he was a ninth grader. But he’s not, he’s seventeen and a hungover junior so he just gives her a condescending look, tries to get back into his literature but it doesn’t work. The words are pretty much illegible at this point.

“I mean, you’re reading it for a reason. Heartbreak? Family troubles? We all need someone that understands us at one point or another, dead or alive.” Her voice is clear and light, somewhat childlike in a way, but each word hangs with an intensity that he’d rather not analyze right now or he’d probably become overwhelmed.

The coffee helped but he still has one bitch of a headache.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and makes eye-contact with the table between them. His fingers smell like butter and java. “No offense, but I’m not in the mood to talk, so would you mind…not…saying…anything? For a bit. Thanks.”

It’s better than “Look, lady, I’m having an awful morning after, if you know what I mean, so please fuck off,” or at least that’s what Alex tells himself.

Her delicate eyebrows narrow (if he was a girl he’d seriously be jealous of them. Maybe he already is because his are like caterpillars, but no one needs to know that) and she continues writing. Alex huffs.

Perhaps he’s still drunk, he doesn’t really know and doesn’t care, but he does feel a little bad about what he said. It was rude and he’s trying to do this whole thing (life) as eloquently as he can, being a party boy and future rock star. And honesty has usually been his strong suit.

“I’ve been falling for this girl, we’re good friends, but last night I slept with her at a party and I think I just messed everything up.” He mumbles into his cup, still talking to the table. Sadly, she catches it. She doesn’t look at him weirdly or asks why the hell he’s telling her all of this, which would’ve been embarrassing. Instead she chuckles, much to his chagrin.

“Christ, you’re an amateur.” She cocks her head to the side, smiling at him. He can’t quite get over how white her teeth are and how boldly her lips contrast with them. “Just wait for a few days, then call her up whenever you’re ready. If she makes it weird then she isn’t worth keeping around.”

Alex sets down his drink, staring her in the eyes. Ocean blue. “Yeah, that’s obvious. But what if I don’t want to call her?”

“Then I’d say you don’t care about her as much as you seem.” She still looks like she’s trying not to giggle. Alex scowls.

“No, you don’t understand-“

She clasps her pale hands together, scooting forward and leveling him with her gaze. Her hands are small, too small for someone with such a personality. “Try me.”

Alex exhales. He doesn’t know why he’s telling her this. But there’s something compelling about the situation, something almost erotic about putting himself out there on the word of a complete stranger.

“Like, things are perfect at this moment, in a twisted way. She’s smart, funny, the sex was great, we’ve had a few good memories. We’re…golden right now. I don’t want to ruin that by calling her and finding out that she’s too sensitive or that she isn’t as amazing as she seemed to be.”

Her eyes twinkle as she purses her lips. “Well, I think that’s a great philosophy. That way you can live your life without ever really knowing anyone.” He opens his mouth to counter but she cuts him off, “I’m not claiming to know everything about you or this girl, but let me save you the suspense. She isn’t perfect. Neither are you. The question is whether you’re perfect for each other.”

Alex sputters, coffee-tinted spittle further decorating the pages of Romeo and Juliet. Hastily wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and stretching his jaw methodically, “I…I k-know what you’re saying, but it really isn’t that simple.” She, the supposed wiser of the two, should know that. He wonders why the fuck she’s offering her opinion on his life choices anyway; it really is none of her business. But then again, he did bring Lisa up…

Nonetheless.

She laughs into her mug, spidery eyelashes fluttering. “Trust me, kid, you know all about simplicity, don’t tell me about it.”

“Maybe, but-”

“You probably got that jacket from Zumiez, right? Two parents that’ll happily support you and sponsor even your stupidest endeavors. Dyed dark-brown hair, straightened, on the messy side. I bet you’ve got loads of friends, fans, on your beck and call. Probably admired by people, you look like a leader. But why dark brown? Kind of a passive color, if you ask me. Maybe you act pompously to hide how terribly insecure you are. It’s less dramatic than that, though. Too many one-night stands, drinks, failed or strained relationships, it’s especially tragic for someone so young. Still in high school…seventeen? But I’d push it up to eighteen. You have a strange sort of…maturity. I don’t know. Close enough.” She locks eyes with him, a small grin still on her crimson lips. He’s pretty sure that if he squints he’ll see glittery fish and small birds flying against the blue of her irises.

“Your life is simple, whether you’ve realized it or not. Holding off talking to this girl is really only a blip in the grand scheme of things, you know.”

Alex bites his lip and he’s decided that he really doesn’t want to hear anymore. Each statement, though each not entirely true, strikes a chord with him. An uncomfortable feeling settles into his stomach, like the one you get after drinking too much milk or coffee. He suddenly wants to puke all over the table; acid, guts, sinew and all, and leave the all-assuming woman alone at the booth looking like an idiot.

Sadly, it’s a little too late for that. His eyebrows furrow. “How can you live with yourself? Not, not that I care what you think of me, but judging someone solely off what they look like is a little arrogant. You know nothing about me.” He says, pouting and desperately hoping there wasn’t a trace of a whine in his voice. If his mother knew he was speaking to a lady this way she’d hit him upside the head and yell, ‘Alexander William, use your manners, you rude brat. I taught you better than this, now go apologize.’ but luckily, she’s not here right now.

She giggles. It sounds like bells, soft but somehow melodic. Alex thinks she laughs too much and it’s starting to get really annoying.

“How can I live with myself? Hm. That’s a tough one.” Now she’s giving him a strangely fond look that sort of reminds him of his aunt’s gaze. He swears that if she reaches over and pinches his cheek he’ll slap her into the next century, porcelain doll or not.

“We’ll probably never meet again, so nothing I say or do now is on my conscience.” Alex has noticed that she’s been keeping a careful eye on the grandfather clock in the corner for the past few minutes. It’s a quarter to nine. “On that note, I have to go now. But good luck with that girl, talk to her, damn it. You’ll be fine.” She says lightly, packing away her notebook. “And…if it counts for anything, that was one of the most fascinating experiences I’ve ever had.”

Alex cracks a tiny smile and nods. He’s still conflicted as to whether he wants her gone or if he’ll miss her company.

“And that was not supposed to sound like a proposition.” She chuckles, standing up.

He rests the book on the table, “No worries, wasn’t taken like one.”

“Great. I guess I’ll see you around.” She blows him a kiss and waves, leaving the coffee shop with the ringing of the bell attached to the door. Alex suddenly realizes that it’s too warm and noisy in the café and that he feels really, really inspired. Dry words and pictures of shimmering cerulean dance in his mind, which is now relatively ache-free.

Yeah, she was a little too formal, intrusive, and weirdly introspective but it was refreshing. He actually has a semi-secret fondness for smart things; psychology, religion, space odysseys, he actually wants to soak it all up like a sponge. They could’ve had a really great conversation on morals or politics, she seemed like she could’ve been a psychoanalyst or a teacher.

And she may or may not have been stunningly beautiful. He hasn’t decided on that yet. He’ll take as much from the experience as he can. Maybe he’ll go on MySpace and blog about it later.

Alex sighs; his coffee’s gone cold. It then occurs to him that he never got her name.

-&-

3/22/2005

Our Street Corners Keep Secrets
this is me asking for a brick to be thrown through my window, a message attached that reads, "Why can’t you just wake up?"
I am not a star,
don’t look up to me in hopes of finding something more.
That which is out of reach does not promise anyone a goddamn thing.
Hope arises in possibility,
but possibility is fragmented and selfish,
so don’t think for a second that I am safe ground to walk on.
I will sink beneath the feet of a thousand traveling companions,
and make ruin of any city’s foundations,
because concrete and steel can never tell a soul how it feels.
Our street corners keep secrets, and our road signs only suggest,
never deciding for us,
never knowing if the destination to which they lead,
is where we truly belong.
Life’s greatest tragedy is not that it will someday end,
but that most of us just live to follow directions,
and many times we end up totally lost.

-&-

The second time they meet, he seeks her.

It’s a week after the first encounter; the mood in Despicable Fantasy is lighter than he remembered it. Before it was a quasi-gothic bookstore with a breakfast bar, now it’s a homey coffee shop with ebony-stained paneling and Jack White playing softly in the background.

Not really, the place hasn’t changed at all, but Alex likes to think so. Maybe it’s the warmer weather. He can practically taste April and spring break. Everyone in Dulaney is getting antsy and already planning their beach party extravaganzas. He was invited to a few of those, sure, but All Time Low is set to tour up and down the east coast during those two weeks. It’ll be with Zack’s dad’s crappy old van but they’re all pretty grateful and are super stoked for it.

There isn’t much different about the situation. Eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, packed café, weary adults, the usual. But he isn’t hungover this time and he gets this weird mocha thing that has ice, caramel, and whipped cream with a sesame seed bagel. His book of choice is also a bit of a stretch and equally controversial- Grendel by John Gardener.

Whatever, it’s sunny out. He’s in a good mood and there’s a .001% chance he’ll see someone he knows here, so no one to spot a regular on the party circuit at a nerd bar. It didn’t occur to him last week but it’s just another reason for him to like this place.

She’s sitting at a different table, this one’s closer to one of the small windows. That’s another thing he loves; the atmosphere is one that reminds him of night, even if they do serve breakfast. It’s more romantic that way, or maybe that’s a sign he’s been spending too much time out late.

Her makeup is perfectly done like last time and she’s sporting a navy cardigan with matching platform heels, a pen tucked behind her ear and a coffee in her hands. Eyes fixated on the harbor outside the window. Basically, he thinks she's dressed like an old lady. The age gap between them would be much less obvious if she wore something more promiscuous, or perhaps that's the point. To create a gap, a comfort zone of sorts.

He sits down without asking; he isn't nearly as tactful as she.

She looks up and grins, tucking a strand of wavy sand-colored hair behind her pierced ear. “How are you and your girl doing?” Alex can hear a trace of some kind of European accent, something he didn't notice last week. Perhaps because he's sober and fully aware this time around, not like he was embarrassed or anything last time. Not like he had anything to hide, right? Because Alex Gaskarth is a shameless human being.

Fuck, u-um, I- We. We're, we've. “We've gotten past it, talked it out. Like you said. We're friends now.” And it wasn't a lie; Lisa had actually been surprisingly understanding about the whole thing. Drunken nights happen and all that, we'll be friends, be careful, let me know if you need anything, you have a show next week right? The thing is, he didn't have the same urge to pursue her as he did last week. Before he actively fancied her (leading to the whole one-night stand shenanigan) but now he's fine with them being the way they were before. No urges. No lusting after her petite frame and wide eyes.

Now he hungers for a curvy, voluptuous figure with a spitfire personality and seemingly endless wisdom. The past seven days have put him in a strange place. Yearning for touch but also to gather as many facts about the universe as he can. He's always been curious and eager to learn; not always in the traditional textbook way, his mediocre school grades a testament to that.

“Listen,” Alex mumbles, putting himself out on a whim. She leans forward attentively; the chair creaks. “I thought a lot about what you said before, the judgments based off my clothes and appearance-”

She has the nerve to tip her head to the side like an owlish bird and smirk, a twisted streak of glossy pink. “We beat the topic to death. There's nothing else to say.”

“You did,” he presses, still adamant, “but I never got to tell you that I knew you were quoting shit out of a goddamn elementary psychology textbook.” She opens her sticky mouth to speak but he rolls on, “You can't guess the complexity of my life or tell me that I haven't experienced loss. I know the feeling like the back of my hand.” He pushes his point. For some reason that particular aspect of their argument pisses him off the most. She doesn't know he lived in a broken family with a dead brother and a dad who has remarried fuck knows how many times; how someone seventeen years old prefers to drown his sorrows in liquor opposed to preparing for college. She doesn't know shit. He needs to say it out loud, make it more real.

But the look she gives him doesn't make his statements seem truer. It makes him want to shrink in on himself, wither up like a dehydrated plant and die.

“You've suffered, I get it. Wow. So you're a human being!” She waves her hands in the air, dropping her palms on the table with a dull smack. The tone she uses is as dry and abrasive as sandpaper. Alex feels himself whittling away.

“This is all I'll say, so get a fucking pen and paper so you can copy from my elementary psychology textbook.” He bristles but doesn't respond. He didn't come here to be rebuked by a prissy snake; the painfully awkward silences were ten times more preferable now.

“True loss happens when you love someone or something more than you love yourself. And based off what you said last week, not to mention just now, I doubt you've ever dared to love anyone that much.” She takes a sip from her coffee, irises burning into his. He's suddenly fascinated by the ships and seagulls lounging outside the tiny window.

“But you're young.” She sets the cup down and smiles the first genuine smile he's seen today, like, But you're young, so it's okay, I forgive your stupidity. He lets out a breath and gives her a wary chuckle because seriously. He was about two seconds from walking out on her and her pompousness. Basically, he's glad she's back.

They eat in silence for a few more minutes. People walk in and out. The bell rings. He chews and a few sesame seeds fall onto his lap. He vaguely wonders where the rest of the guys are; Jack had texted him last night about seeing a movie but he declined, saying he had a major headache and that he'd try to make it to the party on Saturday night. Tonight. So the rest of his close friends and his band are probably all sleeping.

He doesn't blame them; he would be too.

I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend
you could, cut ties from all the lies that you've been living in.
And if you do not want to see me again
I would understand...

“I would understand.” She sings along quietly to herself, setting down her breakfast sandwich, taking a swig of coffee, and clearing her throat. He sets down the crumbs of his bagel and watches on amusedly. “The angry boy, a bit too insane. Icing over a secret pain. You know you don't belong... N' your friends have left and they've been dismissed, I never thought it would come to this and I,”

“I want you to know.” He hums along, singing these words with her. Alex knows he can sing well, he is a vocalist in a band, after all. But there's something the way that she articulates and puts a melody behind the words that makes goosebumps travel up and down his exposed arms. Her voice is a scratchy sheet; it's rough yet warm, slightly husky and yet she transitions smoothly from note to note. Her singing isn't lyrically correct or ideal either (he knows; this was one of the first songs he learned to play on the guitar)- she misses plenty of notes and her albeit flexible tones crack and strain on higher notes. She clearly hasn't had vocal training like he has but her steady singing is more beautiful than his could ever be. He's in awe.

She runs through the chorus again, swaying softly in her seat as he leans forward on his elbows, softly harmonizing, balancing alto with tenor. It's nice.

The song's only halfway over but she looks him over again, the mussed dark hair, quick eyes, red hoodie, lopsided smirk. “You sing?” Her voice is kind of squeaky and she asks it like he has something she needs.

“Yeah.” He can't help himself; he has an ego to feed, after all. The wondering look on her face encourages him. “I'm in a band.” A pause. “We're actually set to tour during spring break.”

“Which is?”

Oh fuck, he berates himself, I shouldn't have let that slip. Why his mental-verbal filter suddenly decided to fail him is beyond Alex's comprehension. “Uh, two weeks from now. I think. Yeah.” He'll have to check with Matt as to which day they leave to sprinkle the east coast with pop-punk and nervous antics; he's pretty sure it's Tuesday. He needs to start packing ASAP.

More significant, however, is the fact that they're playing a show tomorrow night at Rams Head Live!, probably the biggest hometown show they've played to date. He has half a mind to casually mention it and invite her-but no, Alex shakes his head and she stares at him curiously. He can't invite her. He barely knows her. Which reminds him...

“By the way, what's your name?”

She coughs on her drink, clearly not anticipating the question. Bits of saliva stain the white tee under her cardigan, and he's hyper-sensitive to all of these details. “What?”

His eyes meet the ceiling, “You know, that thing your parents give you, people call you by it. Is it a man's name? If it's a man's name I swear I won't make fun of you-”

“Jesus, I know, shut up.” She laughs. “It's Callie.”

“Like, calligraphy?”

“What kind of analogy is that?”

Alex shrugs, “The kind I'd make.” He hates how he has to bite back a “dumbass,” at the end, despising how his once-harmless teenage habits have caught up to him.

Callie gulps her coffee. It's strange, he thinks, putting a name to the face. (He's positive he liked it better when she was a stranger.)

“And yours?”

He smirks, “Alexander William Gaskarth.” He says it so quickly he's sure there's no way she could've deciphered anything past a slightly more distinct 'Alexander.'

“Well damn, what kind of name is Gaskarth? It sounds like something you'd buy from the clearance section of Ikea.”

He flushes, color biting his cheeks. “It's British! Or...something, I don't fuckin' know.” Are we really discussing this?

“Right. Either way, I think a Wilson could beat a...Gaskarth any day.”

That catches him off-guard. “Your last name's Wilson?”

“Yeah, well, technically it's Reese-Wilson...” She chokes on the words, stumbling over them like a tripped-up lecturer. Alex realizes her fault a moment too late, and it smacks him in the face, a burst of sour nicotine, leaving him reeling.

“You're married.” Callie doesn't respond, she doesn't need to. The sudden heat on her cheeks makes him uncomfortable. Is that a grey hair? It's not visible amongst all the platinum-blonde; he has to mentally applaud her for that.

Not to mention that he feels like an idiot now. Alex had assumed she was around his age, maybe a bit older. In college, perhaps? More mature for sure. But definitely not his senior by any amount. Hell, she doesn't look a day over twenty. Now he's really freaking out, and he might just pass out if it turns out she has kids.

Which is a bit melodramatic, but he's never been one of those boys to fawn over a MILF. He's always found the prospect a little creepy. Now all those Your Mom jokes are coming up to bite him in the ass.

If it still hurts, you still care. He's not jailbait, fuck no, he's the one who 'molests' 15-year old sluts in dirty back alleys, typically against the glossy black trailer after shows. He picks up his book again to shield his shaking hands. His mind is making about as much sense as a song by The Clash.

She appears to notice this and hastily changes the topic, “Grendel?” He ticks his chin robotically. Callie sighs. “So much chaos and confusion. Poor Grendel. Damn post-modernism.”

He looks up, she's shifting away from him slightly. He's pushing her away and doesn't even know it.

“Y-yeah.” He quirks an eyebrow. “I'm at the part where the Dragon comes in and fucks everything up even more.”

Callie chuckles, “Pretty much. But I've always been fond of the Dragon.”

“Why?”

“Just because he's confusing doesn't mean he's wrong. He just sees the universe as a whole picture. Grendel can't see beyond the hills and the clouds, so it's not the Dragon's fault that Grendel doesn't understand. He's too limited.”

Alex grins wickedly, catching onto her drift, “Well it's not Grendel's fault that he had a crappy home life and that Hrothgar's men jumped to conclusions with him. Maybe the Dragon was just being a presumptuous asshole-”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, tiger. He's not an asshole, he's just...mystical. Kind of trippy and misunderstood.” She winks, picking up her cold cup and awaiting his move.

He shuts his eyes, a blissed-out smile gracing his face. “No, he isn't. And you're way prettier.”

-&-

3/30/2005

I am a landmine.
Sometimes I break down so hard you can hear it, and when I can stand to come near it with means to repair, the chances of walking out unscathed are slim to none.
I know because I’m one; a victim of second-hand breakdowns and bad impressions, made under intoxicated conditions with poorly lit expressions. And I regret not going back, I regret not missing flights, I regret not asking for more and taking chances that I can only hope will not be forgotten. My fingers are crossed.

I-O-U.

Now my telephone’s dead and I can’t stand to hold out like this, but I’m constantly checking myself so as not to be a burden. Anything too heavy eventually gets dropped, no matter the cost. Let me be light as a feather, but valued enough so as to remain in a back pocket, until those jeans need washing and I find my place on a bedside table, to be read aloud on nights when memories and prying needs return to haunt the foundations of this room.

Pick me up,
Read me every now and then,
I won’t disappoint.
*I am* witty and engaging so bless me with attention, because I’m *dying* for attention *without* any means of telling *you*.

-&-

“We really need to stop meeting like this, Alex,” but the way Callie's cobalt irises practically glow upon seeing Alex implies otherwise. A corner of her mouth quirks into a smile as he slides into the decrepit seat across from her, rolling up the slightly long sleeves of his black baseball tee and placing down his cappuccino. His nose scrunches up the slightest bit upon seeing her top; it's flowy and pale-pink, hideously girlish and hiding most of the curves and dips he's grown so fond of. He likes the coat better. And the scoop-cut neckline barely touches past her collarbones and the tiny birthmarks speckled there, itty-bitty sprinkles of kisses and faded touches.

So mysterious. He tries to stop his train of thought and casually sips a bit of his drink. Too strong; it burns a dishearteningly bitter pathway down his throat.

“Nah, we don't.” The brazen tone that was once his default way of speaking now sounds stripped down, weak, but not quite pathetic. Similar to a ballad-esque acoustic rendition of a once high-energy song. His voice doesn't crack and it still holds the same meaning, but dare he think it...slightly more tender. Maybe. Probably not, he just sounded desperate.

Alex forces down some more coffee.

“So,” Callie flips her pale gold hair over her shoulder, “I'll get straight to the point. I went to your show last Sunday. All Time Low, right?”

Insert a what-the-actual-fuck spittake, the kind you only see in bad sitcoms that use laugh tracks from the fifties, here. “Oh my fucking god, you didn't have to.”

A sigh. “I did.” She crosses her slender arms on the table, idly picking at her lime green nails. Those are new. “Do you want to know what I thought? Probably not,” she offhandedly answers for him, “based off your reaction just now.”

“No, no, I wanna know.” He's not actually sure, but given the chance he'd lie again.

It's just that he feels... oddly apprehensive. Alex knows his band is good; not just any high school band lands a gig at Rams Head Live!. Their music is his pride and joy. He has his off days, they all do, but typically they're putting everything they have into each show, despite procrastinating with band practice and substituting sound check with a healthy round of dick jokes and MTV references.

But the dynamic between him and Callie has changed, whether he knows it or not. She's not a mentor as she is a wise best friend that you've known for your whole life, except, you know, that minor detail that they've barely known each other for a month. Her judgments still trigger something inside him, yeah, and Alex is pretty sure she's trying to teach him sophistication like it's a foreign language. But he's not afraid to talk back and be a general loudmouth, which Callie usually takes pretty well.

“You kind of sound like every quality band that the early 2000s has vomited up.”

“The fuck?” Why vomit? Couldn't she have used a more pleasant word, like 'produced'? Jesus. He doesn't know whether to blush or blow a raspberry.

“I wasn't done yet!” Callie shoots back indignantly, and he waits. “Like... early Blink-182 or something. With less nudity. So that's also me saying that you guys put on a damn good live show, I enjoyed myself. You'll go far.” She sends him a small smile. His heartbeat picks up a miniscule amount of speed but it makes him shift in his seat and want to hit himself.

The feeling is so wrong, it's right.

“Thanks,” but the word doesn't stop nagging him and it's pissing him off. “But why'd you say vomited?”

She bites her lip, looking down at her hands. Oh fuck, is she embarrassed?! Alex feels his chest swell with pride, for some odd reason. It feels like they're more on the same level now. “Bad habit, I guess. But I meant it in a good way, because so much good music has come out of the past five to ten years.”

Alex can't argue with that. He tells her so and she nods seriously, leaning slightly closer to him. The amount of sweat dampening the back of his neck is fucking humiliating.

“Speaking of, who's your favorite band?” It's an honest and plain question. Alex wants to laugh.

“You really don't want to get into this conversation with me.”

“I'll take the risk.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks teasingly.

Callie tilts her head, resting her cheek against her palm, elbow propping her arm on the table. “It really should be.”

….

“Shut up!”

She rolls her eyes, “You don't know what you're fucking talking about, kid.”

“I fucking do, bitch, and-”

“Two words: The Middle.”

“One song!” Alex exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He doesn't care if they're causing a ruckus; he's not stopping. This is a battle to the death. “The only reason anyone gives a shit about Bleed American.”

“And Futures only has Futures. Don't you think it's so cliché that the only fantastic song on that record is the title track?”

“There's also Night Drive-”

“Nope.” Callie's steely tone settles it. He groans.

“Fucking hell. I have good memories with that song.” Driving around Baltimore with Jack after he first got his license, specifically, but hey.

“You said that about practically every song on Enema and that doesn't make it any better of a record.”

“It doesn't need to be! It's perfect just the way it is.”

Her impatient facade cracks; she giggles. “You do realize how fanboy-like you sound right now.”

Alex isn't going down that easy. A stupid little giggle isn't going to slow him down. “Yeah, like how you pretty much touch yourself to Take Off Your Pants And Jacket.”

Callie grins again, “That was funny. I'll give you that.”

“I know I'm hilarious.” He attempts to downplay it but ultimately ends up sounding like a cocky bastard. She crosses her legging-clad ankles. The invisible yet practically tangible wall between them is suddenly up again. He hates it.

“But,” she lifts a petite finger, “we can at least come to a truce over Out Of The Vein.”

“I'm glad.” And he really is. Despite the underlying playful affection, 'arguing' with Callie took a bit out of him. She's apparently just as crazy-in-love with music as he is and their equal knowledge on the subject is interesting, to say the least.

“So,” she doesn't have her notebook with her today and occupies her hands by nervously twisting her fingers together. Alex kind of wants to grab them. To tell her to stop fidgeting, of course. “You should try to show me what good music is, then.”

“Huh?”

“From the words of Andrew McMahon himself... This is my mixed tape for her? Something like that.” She raises a painted eyebrow expectantly; it takes him a few seconds.

“You want me to make you a mixed CD?” His voice wavers. But there's school, work, I work at a sound engineering studio. Uh, I have to drive my friends around because they don't have their licenses, band practice! We're leaving to tour in a few days, spring break preparation, homework, doing the dishes, feeding the dogs, finding time to masturbate-

“Yeah, if that's okay.” Callie says it so flippantly, like he has all the time in the world when he clearly doesn't. “If it helps, I'll make you one too. Just so we can settle this, you know, once and for all.”

His next words then bubble and flow out of his mouth like molten lava out of a volcano. After he says them he kind of feels the urge to sprint home, pack a bag full of clothes, go on a sail boat and sail to another universe. “That's a really couple-y thing to do, you know.” Jesus fucking fucking fuck someone shoot me oh my fucking fuck. I'm underage. She's...fuck knows how old, old enough to be married and have a proper job and kids and-

“So?” she shrugs. “It's sharing music.” Alex can see the gleam in her eye; two can play at this game. She may be feigning innocence but he's the truly naïve one in their relationship.

Boldness surges through his veins. “Do you usually spend your free time making passes at younger boys?” Seducing them, perhaps unconsciously? He'll take an answer either way, he isn't picky.

Callie laughs, a sound that manages to be both nasally and charming. As cheesy as it sounds, it triggers something from inside him, somewhere near his sternum. Partially because the notion is so unexpected, and simultaneously annoying and comforting. It's a paradox, yes. But Alex really doesn't want to overanalyze it.

“Alex.” He likes the way it rolls off her tongue. “I think I've been rubbing you the wrong way...”
You haven't been rubbing me at all, but sure, I mean, if you insist.

“Let me put it this way- Even though I'm married, I see no reason to restrict myself in terms of people I see. Why should I limit myself? I like my freedom. And my husband knows I love him, so it's none of his business.”

That's the most Callie has revealed about herself at one time, Alex notes. A swinger? She's certainly not slutty in the obvious way, but there's a tone of seductiveness, intentional or not, that lingers in the air she exhales.

“But do you actually love him?”

She rests her index finger on her chin, honestly pondering the question. He takes another sip of his drink; the roof of his mouth melts like hot steel, the acrimonious warmth opening his dark eyes the slightest bit.

“My theory on love is simply that if you find it, maybe it does exist; if you don't find it, maybe it doesn't exist.” Callie pauses, crossing her arms almost self-consciously. “And if you lose it you'll wish you never thought it existed.”

Alex is sort of in awe, really, but covers it up with a scoff and a, “There you go again, quoting crappy psych textbooks.”

She bites back a laugh. “Have you ever read one?”

“You got me.” He wracks his brain for some sort of redemption. “Uh, but I took adolescent psychology in 10th grade.”

Callie mocks offense, placing a hand on her heart, her lips forming a perfect 'O'. Alex leans back in his chair, purposefully avoiding looking at the simple silver band on her ring finger.

“Wait, so are you, a psychoanalyst, comparing my brilliant, chick flick-worthy quote to something out of a,” she lifts her hands to make quotation marks with her fingers, “crappy psych textbook?”

“Maybe, depending on how good that chick flick was.”

“Oh, shit. Lets say something that ranks with the likes of Sixteen Candles and Legally Blonde.”

Alex raises an eyebrow in acknowledgment, “I gotta see this movie.”

“Perhaps you will.”

Now they're getting somewhere. He wants to probe some more before things become awkward again. “What, you're an actress?” It would be horribly stereotypical, yes, with the way she dresses and holds herself (Florals for spring? Groundbreaking). But Alex has common sense. Young actresses don't delve in philosophy and go around reading eighteenth-century novels. He's doing it to indulge her and get an answer. Insistsinsistsinsists on brainwashing himself.

“No,” Callie frowns, as if reading his mind, “that'd be too funny.”

“So, what are you? Don't tell me you're actually a psychology major, that'd be mortifying.” He says with a chuckle.

She coughs, clearing her throat and idly rubbing her neck. “No, I'm not. But you're close. I'm... an English major.” She says the last sentence so cautiously that Alex really has trouble telling if she's lying or not.

He hums in response. "And what's that like?” He pushes, curious in the seemingly most bored way.

“Fun. Freelance stuff at the moment, seeing as I graduate from University in a month.” He delights in how uncomfortable Callie seems, looking at the floor and at her hands and at his neck. He wonders why she tells him this, stripping off another metaphorical article of clothing for him, revealing herself even more when it was apparent that she craved mystery. But he's above complaining, for sure.

It causes a spark of dominance to seep through his veins like a drug; knowledge does that to one. So according to his haphazard calculations she can't be older than twenty-two. And if she did have kids they would be young enough for her to have to take them with her everywhere, eliminating that possibility. Every cell in his body breathes a sigh of relief and a substantial weight seems to have been lifted off his back. The crushing feeling in his ribcage isn't so much a burn as it is a dull thrum, now. He feels less like a male lolita, knowing the age gap is only five years, not ten or fifteen. (Not that Alex cares, he's so above most restrictions and brushes them off like they're nothing. Especially just a silly number.)

He feels her next words form in the air before they escape her throat, “But enough about me, what do you plan on doing with yourself?” It doesn't sound like a question a patronizing parent would ask, not from her lips.

“Musician,” Alex replies honestly, uncrossing his jean-clad legs. “I can't see myself with an office job or anything like that. It's the only thing I want, the only thing I plan on doing.” He babbles. He'd been putting down Veterinarian on the school surveys because that's what they want to hear, not Become a rock star. Childhood dreams, they think. But Alex really isn't fooling anyone; everyone knows he can't be fucked to put in the effort required to become an animal doctor, despite his love for the creatures.

“I can tell,” Callie eggs him on, “Like I said, I'm a fan. I know you'll do whatever it takes to get to the top.”

He really doesn't know what to say; his throat has been sucked dry in time for his response. “Um...thanks.”

“Anytime. Speaking of music, don't forget the mixed CD!” She seems particularly hung over that particular promise, and Alex isn't sure if he wants to let her down or not.

“I won't, seriously.” He loves making them, compartmentalizing songs by mood, genre, lyrical content and possible sentimentality. He'll start organizing hers later, and dump plenty of Futures and early Blink on it for good measure. And the Foo Fighters; she can't stand them, which is an obvious indicator of insanity because they're clearly the best rock band ever.

“Good. And now's the part where I have to go.” She declares after glancing at the grandfather clock, seeing that it's nearing ten o'clock. Alex pouts.

“Why do your Saturday appointments always get pushed back later and later?” He wonders aloud, smirking slightly as she stands up.

“I don't know, I guess the people I associate myself aren't the most...stable.” She winks, grabbing her cream-colored handbag from the ground and walking to the door. For the first time he trails after her, reveling in the fact that even in her three-inch wedges he's still a good four or five inches taller.

She stops right before the groaning door with the sharp metallic bell, turning to face him, pale gold hair whipping around as soon as she realizes that he's been following her out. But instead of reprimanding him like a foolish child she cautions him, a curious fondness emerging in her ardor blue eyes. A frail hand touches his cheek, and Alex realizes at that moment that despite all her pomp and circumstance, Callie is really quite breakable.

They've never had skin-on-skin contact before, not even in the least sensual way, but the right half of his face feels like its on fire. He's honestly surprised she hasn't actually struck a match and lifted it to his cheekbone, flesh and muscle and inhibitions burned away before her eyes.
She murmurs something but he can't hear it because of the blood rushing in his ears, the thump thump thump clouding his thoughts as she leans up on her trembling tip-toes, caffeine breath ghosting over his jawline.

And for some inexplicable reason, just as her lips are about to make contact with his cheek, he turns his head sharply and catches them against his. She gasps into his mouth, clearly shocked, but doesn't move to pull away or push him, and Alex is more than glad because she tastes like wiseness, coffee, a good book, alcohol, and a pretty girl (not woman). He cautiously links his fingers behind the small of her back, which she surprisingly allows, and he ignores the onlookers in Despicable Fantasy as he tilts his head for a deeper press. Everything about the kiss is slow, tentative, first-time. Behind lockers, pinky-promises. Innocent and yet the filthiest feeling grows inside him, which he absolutely relishes because of the thrill that shoots through him like a firecracker.

Most of her pastel lipstick has rubbed off and he daringly licks the remaining smudge off her bottom lip; it tastes like saliva and sin. Her manicured fingernails lightly thread themselves through his messy brown hair and tug. He makes a soft noise at the sensation, her eyes flying open as she takes a minute step back, his hands falling to his sides. He gazes down at her, wide-eyed, because he was a live wire that was just turned off, the pitfall after the climax of a story. (And not in that way, get your mind out of the gutter). Callie meets his eyes and suddenly grins apologetically.

“Time flies, but I'm gonna be late.”

Alex nods dumbly as she pulls him in for a hug and releases him all too quickly, the ringing of the door's tinkling bell like a slap in the face as he stands alone in the entryway.

-&-

4/5/2005

I also like to kiss people. It gets me into trouble sometimes. Whatever. Certain individuals need to stop looking for love in the wrong places.

--I can’t talk.
--I’ve found love in the worst places.
--Its not an easy thing to deal with.
--Doesn’t change the way I feel about them.
--Its ok.
--As long as I’m happy.