The Girl Who Sleeps With a Knife

It was a chilly October night, Joan had never felt lazier.
"This cat better take me to a groovy restaurant," she groaned as she tore through her closet,"where is it? Any other day I would find the damn thing."
She checked all over her room to find it, throwing clothes here and there out of frustration;next was the laundry room, she hoped to God it wasn't dirty or wet in her time of need. Both the washing machine and dirty clothes pile came up empty, which she found comfort in.
"Well, it's not wet neither is it dirty, but wherever the damn thing is, I better find it before eight thirty."
Full of hope, she opened the dryer and found that no clothes were ever in there, nevertheless she filled it with the wet clothes and turned it on. Defeated, she dragged herself back into her room and sat on her bed. She stood up, yawned, and decided to stretch her back by touching her toes. Eyes focused on the floor, she couldn't help but notice a hook of a hanger poking out from under the bed. Quickly, she dropped to her knees and pulled out the mysterious item to reveal a red dress, covered by plastic. It was her favorite dress, she used it as a tool, like how a fisherman would use a fishing rod to reel in their catch,and it usually worked. She reminisced in the memory of all the clubs and events in which she wore that dress, and chuckled at all the men she reeled in and turned away.
"Good times,"she said to herself. But the longer she stared at the dress, the more she realized that she had no intention to seduce Rocko; on the contrary, she wanted to be seduced for once. Instead, she found an oversized "Ramone" shirt she forgot she even had, and tucked the hem under a long floral skirt. She stood on the edge of the tub that was oppsite the bathroom mirror in order to look at her outfit.
"Not bad," she said,"I just need some black boots. My handy dandy mod boots." In her closet, her mod boots sat in their shoe box, as if untouched; she only ever wore them once. They fit snug on her feet, yet comfortable nonetheless. She was ready to leave, but she had to wait on Rocko, who was late.
Once she heard the knock at her door, she hurried to it but stopped in front of the door and waited for him to knock a second time. She opened the door, expecting herself to have a snarky comment about him, but she was astonished by his appearence.
"You're late," she commented.
"Yeah, I was tryin to be fashionably late, but I realized that I had no idea what that meant," he laughed,"You look...foxy."
She chuckled as she locked her door,"Leave the slang to me, white boy, okay."
He half smiled,"You know I'm Italian?"
"Figured as much: the way you carry youself, you move in cool way, like your not afraid of anything, like Vito Corleone in the Godfather," they walked down the stairs,"Even so, I still think I should stick with the slang, I like hearing you speak properly, it's foxy."
"I only ever saw the first Godfather,"he said.
"The second one's just as good, they have flashbacks of Vito when he was young,"she squinted at him,"Come to think of it, you kind of look like him, only a little bit though."
As they made their way outside, a shiny retro looking car was parked in front the stoop.
"Holy moly, do my eyes deceive me, please tell me that this car is right before me."
"I'm glad you dig it, this is one of the cars that has been in my family for as long as I can remember."
"This is a 1942 Pontiac Streamliner, with white wheels, I can't believe this," she looked at him and cooled her demeanor,"Yeah, I dig it, it's a groovy car. Let's boogy."
They got in the car, but Rocko didn't start it,"So where do you wanna go?"
"I'm in the mood for pasta."
"Italian restaurant it is."
As they drove, Joan noticed,"This thing is smoother than Barry White."
"How come you did that thing?" Rocko asked.
"What thing?"
"Back there, when you went cold turkey over this car but you stopped and said something cool, why'd you do that?"
"C'mon, Santino, who's ever known a woman to be astounded by cars?"
He shrugged his shoulders,"I've never known anybody to do half the stuff that you do, Joan. I don't think you have a predictable bone in your body."
"Well, what about you?"
"Me? I'm just a sad man, who worries too much."
"In this day and age, we need people who worry too much," Joan felt a weirdness inside of her that she's never felt for anyone,"You're a good man, Rocko Santino." she began to get goosebumps, and held her arms, "Where are going anyway?"
"An Italian restaurant called the Don," he answered.
"True shit, it's called that?" She asked.
"No jive," he replied, he noticed in his peripheral view that Joan was rubbing her arms,"You cold?"
"Not at all, man, I just like rubbing my icicle arms on a daily basis."
"Where's your jacket?"
"Well, not here, obviously; it's dirty, it smells like ass."
Once they came to a red light, Rocko removed his army jacket,"Here ya go."
"Nah, I can't take that, then you'll get cold."
He scoffed,"Joan, when I was in 'Nam I got shot in my right arm, and a goddamn panther scratched me on my back. I think I can handle the cold."
She took his jacket, more happily than she would let herself believe, and threw it on her arms. She felt him, the jacket harvested everything about him: his soft skin, his warm body, she could even smell him.
"Thank you,"she said, eager to see his war scars. Joan watched his handsome face as he concentrated on the road,"You probably aren't getting this back any time soon." She told him.
He smirked, and thought of something clever to reply with but nothing came to mind,"Groovy."