Not Where I Belong, Tiffany
anonymous
August 13 2012, 04:01:24 UTC
She looks like the rest of them, bundled in her skintight jeans, lip gloss sparkling too bright when the twirling lights strike her, drink poised in one hand, half-finished, something fruity with a hard edge.
She doesn't kiss like the rest of them. Her lips (flute players' lips, some of them will notice, the best kind for kissing) are a force to be reckoned with, fierce and furious without a hint of playfulness. They're strangely dispassionate, though, hauntingly searching. As if she's trying to find something more than lust, some other emotion so strong as to be nearly tangible, in a stupid dance floor kiss.
Her name is Tiffany, she'll tell them, later on, if they stay that long, when they're standing together at the side of the dance floor, chatting, appraising. Her name is Tiffany and she stands too close, not close enough. She isn't clingy; she doesn't grope, but her presence is intimidating, suffocating, in those few minutes when she's babbling about herself. She's not dominating, no, but there's something resting beneath her surface, beneath the sparkly eye shadow and puffy lips, something that's frightening. It's as if she's constantly asking questions behind the mindless chatter and pulsing beats, as if she wants to hear words that can't exist, here.
The boys that bother to listen wait for her to stop, then tell her they'll get her another drink. They leave and they don't come back and she finds herself standing there, night after night, waiting for all the things she's looking for in the all the wrong places.
wow, anon. just--wow. this is amazing, and i can't believe you managed such a spot-on, achingly realistic fill in less than two hours since the prompt went up. thank you so much for this; this is gorgeous.
She doesn't kiss like the rest of them. Her lips (flute players' lips, some of them will notice, the best kind for kissing) are a force to be reckoned with, fierce and furious without a hint of playfulness. They're strangely dispassionate, though, hauntingly searching. As if she's trying to find something more than lust, some other emotion so strong as to be nearly tangible, in a stupid dance floor kiss.
Her name is Tiffany, she'll tell them, later on, if they stay that long, when they're standing together at the side of the dance floor, chatting, appraising. Her name is Tiffany and she stands too close, not close enough. She isn't clingy; she doesn't grope, but her presence is intimidating, suffocating, in those few minutes when she's babbling about herself. She's not dominating, no, but there's something resting beneath her surface, beneath the sparkly eye shadow and puffy lips, something that's frightening. It's as if she's constantly asking questions behind the mindless chatter and pulsing beats, as if she wants to hear words that can't exist, here.
The boys that bother to listen wait for her to stop, then tell her they'll get her another drink. They leave and they don't come back and she finds herself standing there, night after night, waiting for all the things she's looking for in the all the wrong places.
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