Eyeball Records parties. I try to tell myself this is a pre-emptive gift for getting through finals.
Hambone's still worrying about my Monday morning final. I tell him Contemporary Literature can wait. Even if I'd stayed in tonight, I wouldn't be studying. I've never been much of a studier.
I remind him of this as we wade through the ice and shadow of December in Kearny.
By the time we get there, me and Hambone are shivering, teeth all chattering.
And the solace when we get inside is almost transcendent . The warmth of radiators, booze, bodies.
It makes me almost thankful for the miserable weather.
We split ways, and disappear off into the crowd. Strangers, casual acquaintances. Casual conversations that end as quickly as they begin. I'm happy about the short lifespan, though. It means I can get to the kitchen quicker. I heard Gabe's bringing snickerdoodles, and Gabe makes the best snickerdoodles.
They're like a chewy more spiced version of those airplane cookies. I love 'em. I love 'em even more when I'm stoned.
I reach across the table for a cup and almost knock over what appears to be a useless sundial of empty bottles. Even though I'd rather have liquor right now, I'm too impressed to destroy the thing. The cookies: that's what I really came in here for.
For now I'll be fine with a beer from the makeshift (read: snow-filled trashcan) cooler.
The kitchen lights are like the ones in school. Fluorescent, buzzing, flickering at an uncomfortable rate. When I look close enough, I can see my hands move frame-by-frame. Too uncanny. It makes my skin crawl.
I shove a snickerdoodle in my mouth, but I've still gotta hold the beer so I shove the other two in a pocket. I just need to get the fuck out of this flourescent-light hell.
The hall is better. A couple's talking and someone's smoking. God, I could use a cigarette right now.
"Those cookies must be fuckin' good, yeah?"
There's this delayed startling effect. But the voice has a grim sweetness that softens the blow.
"Mmm?" I mumble too late.
And I'm reminded again that I am, in fact, the goddamn idiot. Cookie crumbs falling from the corners of my mouth and all.
"Yeah." I say, trying my best to seem put-together.
But now I'm getting crumbs all over this corduroy-maybe-velvet jacket and it's making me more embarrassed and knowing how obvious it all is makes me all the more embarrassed.
"Shit," I say between bites, "Sorry 'bout that."
"Eh, it's alright."
An apologetic smile, it barely shows these small almost baby-looking teeth. There's a reserved sort of awkwardness to the tone. It's unfamiliar, comfortable.
"I was the one talking to the guy with a mouth full of cookies."
"Yeah, a real fuckin' asshole." I can't help but laugh a bit. Out of nerves, out of fear you might think I actually meant it.
Thankfully, you do. And you laugh. And you've got this warm sort of face that feels almost familiar. Almost.
"So why'd you do it?" I ask.
Just making conversation. Maybe out of social contract, but it feels like more than that. I avoid those types of conversations, I fucking hate them. But with you, I just want to hang around you. Just, because.
