Mark & Kate.
Kate moves her hand, her small, delicate, porcelain hand and gently palms his face, she uses her thumb to play with his lip ring, she leans in to kiss him. They are at a party. People around them are smoking, drinking, having what they believe is a good fucking time. Not one of them will remember any specifics from tonight the proceeding morning. They will wake up sick, empty, regretful. They will wake up sad and lonely no matter how many chicks the guys carelessly fucked, no matter how many guys the girls drunkenly seduced. For tonight, though, none of that matters. Kate sits off to the side with Mark and they kiss. Her lips position themselves artfully on his; her upper meets just above his, her lower is situated between. Both kids are intoxicated, their levels of inebriation vary. Kate is a slender, lightweight one hundred and five pound petite. Her man has been making her drinks all night. Three fourths Bacardi, one fourth mixer. Three fourths Smirnoff, one fourth mixer. I will have her tonight. I will have her tonight. Everything is going exactly according to the motherfucking plan. Both kids are drunk, both kids are horny, both are promiscuous, tactless, and immature. She sits on his lap, off to the side of the room, on a tacky thrift-store ottoman. They move from the ottoman to the couch, the couch to the floor, the floor to the bedroom. Kate met Mark at this same place exactly one week ago. They exchanged glances and she introduced herself, he was cute, she was buzzed. Kate is obnoxiously outgoing and flirtatious as it is. Liquor only intensifies these traits. Mark thought she was hot, her low-cut shirt and high heels told him she would give it away, his friends all said damn son, this girl is on your dick son, you better hit that. Tonight he would fucking hit that, son.
Anton is not at the party with Kate, but he wishes he was. Anton hates parties like this, he can’t stand the obnoxious drunks, he hates coming home reeking like smoke, having the taste of cigarettes drip into his open mouth when he showers the morning after. He’s seen the guys there, they’re a bunch of pricks. Despicable, date-raping heathens. He’s observed the girls, they’re a bunch of whores, a bunch of sex-crazed maniacs. He would not be in his element, but he wishes he was at the party. He wishes he was there so he could find Mark and beat his motherfucking ass. He would take Mark and his fucking sideways hat and his fucking tattoos and his fucking lip ring outside and break his face. He would snap his ribs, grab his throat, kick in his teeth. He would say if you touch my woman again I will fucking end you, you hear me? I will fucking end you. Anton imagines this scenario and smiles, it makes him happy. It is the only thing that makes him smile tonight. Anton drinks alone tonight, again, because the pain is immense. Kate left him two weeks ago and she’s moved on. She is smitten with Mark, and Mark is smitten with her. It’s probably not true love, but it’s a damn good fuck, and for now, Kate says, that’ll do. Anton sips on J&B Scotch Whiskey. It tastes awful but he hardly notices, he is numb, he may as well be considered paralytic. As defense, he has gone completely fucking numb. He no longer has any claim to Kate’s heart, he has absolutely no right to beat Mark’s ass, Kate is single now, she is single and ready to fucking mingle. Kate has treated Anton like shit, but he loves her, he loves her still. He imagines winning Kate back, he imagines beating Mark’s ass. It makes him smile. End you, asshole. I will fucking end you. He imagines Kate apologizing for what she’s done to him, apologizing for all the lies, manipulation, abuse. I’m sorry Anton, I’m so sorry I hurt you, I’m so sorry I used you, betrayed you, broke your heart. But this is all a fantasy. This will never happen, and Anton knows it, and he has to deal with it. He mourns the love he knew, the love he knew with Kate. He sits and he drinks and he mourns.
Kate is on a stranger’s bed screaming Mark’s name. They writhe and sweat on one another, the muffled music seeping through the bedroom door is drowned by the sick slapping of skin on skin. Again and again and again. Skin on skin, skin on skin. Anton cries at home. Kate screams Mark’s name. Mark grunts and curses, his hands unromantically clutch her hips. Anton sits at home with his J&B and he cries. I will end you, motherfucker, I will fucking destroy you if you touch her again. Mark finishes himself off and rolls his body away from Kate’s, they both light up a clove cigarette, they hardly acknowledge each other’s presence. They sit naked and upright in bed in a room that smells of wet, cheap sex and they don’t even look at each other. It’s a good fuck, and for now, Kate says, that’ll do just fine.
Anton is not at the party with Kate, but he wishes he was. Anton hates parties like this, he can’t stand the obnoxious drunks, he hates coming home reeking like smoke, having the taste of cigarettes drip into his open mouth when he showers the morning after. He’s seen the guys there, they’re a bunch of pricks. Despicable, date-raping heathens. He’s observed the girls, they’re a bunch of whores, a bunch of sex-crazed maniacs. He would not be in his element, but he wishes he was at the party. He wishes he was there so he could find Mark and beat his motherfucking ass. He would take Mark and his fucking sideways hat and his fucking tattoos and his fucking lip ring outside and break his face. He would snap his ribs, grab his throat, kick in his teeth. He would say if you touch my woman again I will fucking end you, you hear me? I will fucking end you. Anton imagines this scenario and smiles, it makes him happy. It is the only thing that makes him smile tonight. Anton drinks alone tonight, again, because the pain is immense. Kate left him two weeks ago and she’s moved on. She is smitten with Mark, and Mark is smitten with her. It’s probably not true love, but it’s a damn good fuck, and for now, Kate says, that’ll do. Anton sips on J&B Scotch Whiskey. It tastes awful but he hardly notices, he is numb, he may as well be considered paralytic. As defense, he has gone completely fucking numb. He no longer has any claim to Kate’s heart, he has absolutely no right to beat Mark’s ass, Kate is single now, she is single and ready to fucking mingle. Kate has treated Anton like shit, but he loves her, he loves her still. He imagines winning Kate back, he imagines beating Mark’s ass. It makes him smile. End you, asshole. I will fucking end you. He imagines Kate apologizing for what she’s done to him, apologizing for all the lies, manipulation, abuse. I’m sorry Anton, I’m so sorry I hurt you, I’m so sorry I used you, betrayed you, broke your heart. But this is all a fantasy. This will never happen, and Anton knows it, and he has to deal with it. He mourns the love he knew, the love he knew with Kate. He sits and he drinks and he mourns.
Kate is on a stranger’s bed screaming Mark’s name. They writhe and sweat on one another, the muffled music seeping through the bedroom door is drowned by the sick slapping of skin on skin. Again and again and again. Skin on skin, skin on skin. Anton cries at home. Kate screams Mark’s name. Mark grunts and curses, his hands unromantically clutch her hips. Anton sits at home with his J&B and he cries. I will end you, motherfucker, I will fucking destroy you if you touch her again. Mark finishes himself off and rolls his body away from Kate’s, they both light up a clove cigarette, they hardly acknowledge each other’s presence. They sit naked and upright in bed in a room that smells of wet, cheap sex and they don’t even look at each other. It’s a good fuck, and for now, Kate says, that’ll do just fine.