Twenty-seven, Twenty-eight

Yesterday, she spent a good hour of the evening trying to fill a narrow-necked travel container with body butter. Any sane person would've opted for a more liquidy alternative, but it just had to be that one particular body butter, it had to be.

Seeing each other after three months of screenshotted snapchats and whispered voicenotes pressed against their ears felt like a thousand deaths in reverse. He had the biggest, goofiest smile on his face, and if you were to tally his steps, you would come up a couple short (he more than skipped a few).

"Y5rb betk, w7shteny," he laughed, and she looked away; like the sight of him was too much to take in, like she needed a few seconds to believe it was actually him in front of her.

Then he went in for that hug he had asked permission for two weeks ago. His chest felt like one endless drum-roll, and when she pressed her hands against his back, he pulled her closer, held on a little tighter; even though her one condition for allowing him to hug her was for it to be quick and brief.

"Amot bre7tk," he whispered, "Wdy aklk akl."

And despite all previously-made threats, all she could bring herself to do was unbuckle her knees and die,

and die,

and die.

About Him*

*or: the reason I've been away
 
He's in everything

every emoji heart (blue, for his favourite team)
lukewarm coffee (starbucks by choice, dunkin donuts for convenience) 
and his pick of vending machine snacks (caramel, caramel everything)

He's on his phone again

God, I wish I was his mother
Domino's pizza on the weekend
the Turkish barber that gets his beard right

I wish I was his everything

(Personal)

There's a subtle vulgarity in the open spread of his legs; the way he rocks back and forth, swings left and right, and how, when he slid down the chair, his thobe rode up and gave away the faint trail of hair around his ankles—oh!

His face hides beneath the red of his shemagh, and although he'd been talking to my father the whole time, he kept stealing glances my way, and I'm not sure if it was just the excitement of it all but it almost gave me butterflies.

"You don't want to be here, do you?" he asks, the moment my father leaves the room. There's more vulnerability in his voice than I would've otherwise expected.
 
I smile. "I do."

He smiles back; his gaze wanders between my eyes, slowly down my face, and finally settles on my lips. I catch my breath.

My father loudly fiddles with the doorknob as he makes his way back into the room. He quickly looks away, clears his throat, and goes on to ask about my university studies.

Be still, my fucking heart. This is not what you want.

You

They said we were two peas in a pod, so good together
like vanilla ice cream and apple pie
and she laughed for fifteen minutes straight.

She said she liked the way his nose flared when he laughed
and when I asked if my nose flared at all
she said she never really noticed before.

She rolls her eyes at me a hundred and twenty times a day
and I loved every bit of it until
he walked by and she turned and drew a million hearts in the air.

It's been two weeks and I still can't wrap my head around
her praise for that girl
with the eyes and the hair.

And then she came around and called me a miserable asshole
said I'll always be alone
and I'm picky and hard to please and I never like anyone

and I said,"I like you."

Soured Milk, 12

"This is Sven."
"I can't believe this is how you answer the phone."
"Who is this?"
"Lamm."
"Who?"
"Oh, god. It's getting really hard for me to keep up with all these fucking names."
"Min?"
"Well it's Lo now, but yeah."
"What do you want?"
"Ever the gentleman, Sven."
"What the fuck do you want, Min?"
"I want to invite you over for dinner."
"Why?"
"He thought it'd be nice for all of us to get together."
"Don?"
"No, Ollie."
"Who the fuck is Ollie?"
"Don's boy."
"What? You're... you're with him now?"
"Yeah, didn't Don tell you?"
"I don't talk to Don."
"Right. Anyway, are you coming or not?"
"I'm busy."
"We all know you're not busy, Sven."
"I don't want to see you, Min."
"What about Ollie?"
"Fuck Ollie."
"Well, if you change your mind—"
"I won't."
"Tomorrow, 6:30. Get a fucking cheesecake or something."

Soured Milk, 11

If I were to describe Ollie, I'd say he was a kind of boy-scout mobster; with his puppy-dog eyes and sleazy smile. He had a boyish charm about him, this playfulness that presented itself with an air of innocence, but deep inside was as rotten as an out of season apricot. A man of endless contrasts and contradictions, that's how Ollie was. He was up and down and left and right, without being anything in particular, without being anything at all. 

"Jeez, Lo, I swear I could hear you talk all day."

I rolled my eyes, too familiar with his random compliments to know that they weren't random at all.

"I like the way your mouth moves, too."

"Oh?" I smiled, fiddling with the front-buttons of his boxer shorts, "What else do you like about my mouth, hmm?"

He pulled my hand away and smoothed down the creases on his underwear. "I like you, Lo, I like you a lot."

"Well you're in luck, because I happen to like you too."

He frowned, hesitating before starting once again, "Listen, Lo. I know we're not gonna get married or nothing, it's just... I really fucking like you, y'know?"
 
"What are you getting at, Ollie?"

"This," he said, pointing at the scar at the back of my thigh. The scar where Sven's tattoo used to be.

I sighed.

"Don't get me wrong, Don's a fucking nutjob, but he doesn't do shit like this for no reason."

"And you think the reason is?"

"Sven," he said, and gave me one of his understanding smiles. I guess he thought he was being kind, but, man, did it piss me off. I just couldn't shake off this feeling that it was eerily similar to Don's patroinzing hand-on-shoulder routine. "You really like him, don't you, Lo?"

"I don't."

"Really, it's okay—"

"I told you I don't! And I'll prove it to you. I'm going to call Sven and invite him over, how about that? We can catch up and be one big, happy, fucking family."

Soured Milk, 10

Don had this friend. He's about Sven's age, maybe a little older, and he'd visit every other week. He'd come over on Friday afternoons, have lunch, hang out with Don for a while, and then leave. He didn't seem to like me all that much, and he always looked at me with such a strange expression; like a frown was lurking somewhere beneath the surface of his face and he had to repress it so much that it physically hurt.

He wasn't really all that handsome, this friend, definitely not as handsome as Sven (or, for that matter, Don in his heyday) but when he smiled, it would take over his entire face; melting into the brown of eyes like warm honey, and staining his cheeks and ears with a shade of red that I've only ever seen on giggling schoolgirls.

"What's the deal with you, anyway." he mumbled, almost to himself, the moment Don left the room to take a phone call. It was the first time he'd ever talked to me.

 "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he cleared his throat, not really whispering but it kind of felt like he was, "What are you doing with an old geezer like Don?"

I smiled, wondering why he seemed so distraught by the whole thing, "Oh, I don't know. He gives a mean fu—"

"You think you're fucking something, huh?" he barked, looking over his shoulders before continuing, "He's only using you, you know."

I shrugged, "What do I care? I'm using him, too."

"How?"

"I had this thing with his friend for a while, and then Don came in and decided he wanted me to himself, so Sven-"

"Sven?!" he stood up, almost leaping to the seat next to me, "You know Sven?"

"Yeah, like I said, we had a thing. Then Don took a liking to me and Sven gave me away. That's what I'm doing with an 'old geezer' like him, to piss off that asshole Sven. How do you know him anyway?"

"Oh, I don't. Not anymore, at least." he frowned, looking away from me, "How is he like?"

"Sven? He's an asshole."

"Listen," he started, turning to check if Don was still on his phone. This time he was definitely whispering, "We should get together sometime, yeah?"
 
"And do what?"

"Nothing special." he smiled in a sort of suggestive, filth-ridden way that made me feel like Sven himself was smiling at me, "What's your name, by the way?"

"Uh... Laurel?"

"Guess that would make me Apollo, then."