wednesday
to be spoken with a southern sort of accent:
The man in the oversized red sweater kept breathing whisky in my ear as he asked me if I was taken.
“A girl like yous,” he said, “a girl like yous is always taken.”
I nodded and said I was, to avoid some sort of confrontation. He told me about drinking bottles of wine on the santa monica pier on summer nights. Smoking a joint, listening to jams. I knew he was the type to call them “jams” before he even called them that.
He asked me if twice if I was taken and you nodded and said I was. To avoid some sort of confrontation. And it was chilly and I was wearing a low cut shirt and I kept yelling at you for sneaking peeks. Even though I wanted you to.
“Tell him to fuck off,” you said. “Tell him you’ve got a boyfriend and he’s in a band.”
“But I don’t.” I said.
“What about that one guy?”
“Fictional. I made him up to make you mad.”
But I said it like “maaaad” and trailed off in a sexy sort of voice.
And I traced little hearts and spirals and shapes on the inside of your jeans that you bleached to match mine.
And I rested my little head on your big shoulder.
“I went to jet rag today.” you said.
“You were on la brea and you didn’t tell me?”
“Well I had to meet Mesa for dinner.”
“Mesa?”
“Mesa. My girlfriend.
We got back together.”
“Oh.. Yeah.” I said. And then decided to make the ,“yeah” a , “yeah?”
To make it sound like I was interested or something.
After a long awkward pause and the removal of my head from your shoulder I said,
“So um. I guess this is what I came to give you.
Songs to make - up to and songs to make - out to.”
I giggled. And I smiled. And I walked off. Strutting a bit more than I usually do. Knowing you was watching me.
I listened to sad songs on the way home.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
I got home and unpacked my duffel bag.
I told you, “Don’t you dare make out with someone else to my make-out cd.”
“Never.” was all you said.
Never.
The man in the oversized red sweater kept breathing whisky in my ear as he asked me if I was taken.
“A girl like yous,” he said, “a girl like yous is always taken.”
I nodded and said I was, to avoid some sort of confrontation. He told me about drinking bottles of wine on the santa monica pier on summer nights. Smoking a joint, listening to jams. I knew he was the type to call them “jams” before he even called them that.
He asked me if twice if I was taken and you nodded and said I was. To avoid some sort of confrontation. And it was chilly and I was wearing a low cut shirt and I kept yelling at you for sneaking peeks. Even though I wanted you to.
“Tell him to fuck off,” you said. “Tell him you’ve got a boyfriend and he’s in a band.”
“But I don’t.” I said.
“What about that one guy?”
“Fictional. I made him up to make you mad.”
But I said it like “maaaad” and trailed off in a sexy sort of voice.
And I traced little hearts and spirals and shapes on the inside of your jeans that you bleached to match mine.
And I rested my little head on your big shoulder.
“I went to jet rag today.” you said.
“You were on la brea and you didn’t tell me?”
“Well I had to meet Mesa for dinner.”
“Mesa?”
“Mesa. My girlfriend.
We got back together.”
“Oh.. Yeah.” I said. And then decided to make the ,“yeah” a , “yeah?”
To make it sound like I was interested or something.
After a long awkward pause and the removal of my head from your shoulder I said,
“So um. I guess this is what I came to give you.
Songs to make - up to and songs to make - out to.”
I giggled. And I smiled. And I walked off. Strutting a bit more than I usually do. Knowing you was watching me.
I listened to sad songs on the way home.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
I got home and unpacked my duffel bag.
I told you, “Don’t you dare make out with someone else to my make-out cd.”
“Never.” was all you said.
Never.