“Last night was one of those moments that sticks with you.”
Have you noticed that the stickiest memories are the night-time ones? Especially for us. The night is when we both end up being the quintessential crazy teenage girl, impulsive and sexual and romantic and hopeful and silly and painfully sincere.
one
september/october?
It is evening on the first day I’ve actually struck a vein and caught your interest. You’ve stalked me down on the internet and said hello and begun an interrogation into my self-destructive habits. You confess to your own. We rant and ramble for hours, every few moments finding instances of frightening similarity. I write poetry and begin to crush because I am fourteen and ridiculous. We talk until it is late, later, too late and we finally go to bed. This is the beginning. This is not something we will forget.
two
battle of the bands
I stalk. We are both wearing fishnets and you comment on this. I watch you from a corner of freshmenz and you smile and wave at me once or twice and the music is mildly good from time to time. You get in trouble for the quantity of cleavage you are showing. I put my voting-bead in my bra and people giggle. You agree vehemently that this is sensible. This makes me smile because you are crazy and you approve of me. I lie and am obvious and silly and even more ridiculous and love it. This exemplifies me. This is not something we will forget.
three
october__(?)
It’s raining and I’m lonely and I tell you so and you offer to help. It’s 45 degrees, raining, and you meet me in the woods in a sweatshirt and rolled up pants and no shoes. The sky is orange; it’s eleven-thirty at night on a Thursday. You still have smeared stage makeup on your face. We sit for hours in a tree for hours, talking about everything possible. I almost kiss you. You almost kiss me. The rain in the glow of streetlight looks like ghosts; you are certain there are vicious animals and axe-murderers in the darkness below us. This is when I become certain that you know I am crazy for you. This is when I become certain that I am crazy for you. In a two-a.m. lull in too-fast traffic we run across the street holding hands and go home. In the morning you will tell me that your fairy girl thinks we are crazy and that this was magical, crazy, yes, but something special. This is not something we will forget.
four
may 3
It’s spring and warm and blooming. We have taken part in one ridiculous ritual and intend to take part in another, this one less official. I lie in the grass eating a tortilla and you meet me. Again you are barefoot. We hop in a car with a boy who looks like a man and buy cheap, sweet red wine and drive around our city. We walk by the river and along the tracks. We end up in a field where we drink till we can’t stand up, till we can’t keep our clothes on, till I can’t be bothered to use all the syllables in your name when I scream it. Our lips repeatedly swing abruptly away from each other as some variation of the words “monogamous relationship with tb!!” come out of your mouth, or bitterly out of mine. You promise you will kiss me before I die because I ask you so many times (it feels like once). I drunk-dial (and text, and im) everyone I can before and after throwing up. We grope in the grass and then in your big bed under the fluffy comforter. I fall asleep there and leave early sunday morning, slipping around your father’s line of sight and out the door. I walk home singing, leave you sleeping on your couch. This is not something we will forget.
five
june 7
It’s our birthday and it it is unbelievably hot. I am dressed but you redress me so we are equally skanky-looking…almost. You put eyeliner and other makeup on me and I feel dressed up. We document everything. We hit far too much traffic and miss most of what we came to see. That doesn’t bother us terribly because within fifteen minutes of arrival we have taken advantage of the darkness and your teeth are in my shoulder and your hands are in my corset-y shirt. We take pictures of ourselves and the bands. We tickle and touch and laugh and bite. You pull my hair they way you’ve started doing, to move my head so you can bite my neck. Our hands dance at the hems of skirts, then at the edges of underwear. Occasionally people notice us and we giggle. I fall into sadness after an awkward not-kiss but it isn’t guilt or wanting, neither of these things specifically. It is just something I do, lose hold of adrenaline rushes and joy. This evaporates and eventually pretenses disappear and we hide in the back row and I sit on your lap and we accumulate marks and we move to the floor. I kneel between your legs and you give up and I give in, for once stop worrying and then you pull back and look into my eyes and tell me “no dying now, though, okay?” I promise I won’t. I feel sparkly and your lips taste like salt and I like to know how easy it is to make you moan. Suddenly there are security guards and I am walking down the stairs and you are somewhere behind me but I have got to just keep walking and not be embarrassed and then we sit on the curb and put on cover-up shirts and chapstick and giggle more. There is heat lighting and you pretend to sleep in the car on the way home. I have to bite my lip to keep silent. This is something we will not forget.
Because it is night we can let go of inhibitions and rules and all these things we cling to in the daytime, our excuses and precautions and practicality. Because it is night we take leaps of various sizes. This always, always results in things we will not, cannot forget.
