He looks over at her and he finds himself looking for the significance in this relationship, not the success. He knows that there are those who fling the words like synonyms but you can't use those two words interchangeably.
She flicks her dry hair over her shoulders and brings her hand up to signal the come hither with her fat fingers. The only thing he's thinking is that he can barely see her knuckles. He moves over as slithers her body, slithering because she thinks it's sexy. She's in control of her body, moving the way she thinks he wants to see her when really it just pisses him off. Her smell is always covered by some sort of flowery scent or teenage body spray. Oh but now he can finally smell her for who she is and now he can see the sweat stains through her flimsy white shirt, and you know what? It fucking stinks. He dips his head and not long later she's quivering and saying yes, more, stop, fuck, not, more, than, one, syllable.
The question of what do you want to be when you grow up lies beside him. Amongst everything in life about doors closing and jumping through windows, about lemons, about the world as his oyster, as the options in life being infinite, about hard work paying off, there hangs something heavier than all that is inspiring. The possibility of dying in the same city you were born, living in the same radius you'd rode around as a kid, never seeing the cities you said you would live in, better yet, not making enough money to see those cities.
She laid next to him in her damp spot, whilst his bony back curved away from her.
Originality written: 19/8/10
I have no idea what I was on about less than half a year ago but I decided to write a bit more.
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