(no subject)
alright.
so i wrote a story with someone.
he wrote the first 4 paragraphs
and i wrote the rest of it.
plz read it.
EDIT: i'm making this entry public :)
WINE & CIGARETTES
I step into the darkness, hard luck pressed against my chest. The glow from her cigarette sways like a junebug. She reaches forward, puts it out on my arm and says, "I'm sorry; I thought you were an ashtray." It's dark, so I forgive her. I ask her name, she asks for mine and I'm pretty sure we both lied. We find a seat and the small talk begins. We're just looking to fuck, so I don't know why we bother with it. The discussion moves to family which makes me think she's thinking too much or looking too hard. She should know that she doesn't mean that much to me. How could she? We just met.
She says she's got to go, and I'm trying hard to act disappointed. She hands me a phone number that I'll call when I'm bored or alone. On her way out the door, I feel sick. The nausea is temporary, but the feeling is permanent. I run after her and all the cigarettes follow me like stars chasing the moon. “Are you leaving for something important?" I ask. "I'd love to talk to you”. She stops and says “I was just leaving because I couldn't tell you that I can't do this anymore.” I pull up my sleeve and show her the burn. “You owe me a cup of coffee.” She sighs. Laughs. Smiles. She says okay.
I try to keep up with her, but she’s talking way too fast. It doesn't matter because all of her words form halos around my ears. She's got the face of an angel and the voice of a Saint but all the grace of Buddha. I'm trying to talk intelligently but I'm just coming off dumb. She calls me special and in my state of reverence I take that as a compliment. Her hand finds its place in mine, and our conversation dies in our palms. But we're still talking. Yeah, we're still talking.
The coffee shop is closed. I knew it would be and I should be feeling guilty. She smiles empathetically, and she knows I knew. I knew she'd know, anyway. She says I've got pretty eyes and I fumble to accept the compliment. I say something poetic and she calls me a suck up. We kiss. Slow and mesmerizing. It felt like Wes Anderson had orchestrated our hands. Tongues. Hearts. To this surreal moment in time. “Home is just a heartbeat away,” I say. She puts her arms around me as if I’d provide her with some warmth. We both know I can’t, but she keeps holding on.
She lets go of me to light a cigarette. “It’s surprising how much warmth a lit cigarette can provide for a cold hand,” she explains. “Sometimes my hand gets so warm that I forget what it’s like to be cold. Sometimes.” I tell her that I haven’t had a smoke in a long time. She offers me one. I want to refuse, but something inside me tells me not to. She lights it for me and I hold it to my mouth. I inhale the smoke, and I realize how right she was. It fills my lungs and I feel my entire body warm up. A moment ago I remembered why I quit, but the heat from the cigarette made me forget. Maybe it was because it made me feel so warm that I forgot what it was like to be cold. Maybe it was just because I realized I was only tricking myself into thinking the artificial warmth really made me happy.
Since the coffee shop is closed, we just keep walking down the street. I don’t have any intention of going anywhere in particular, and I don’t think she does either. I look up at the sky. Columns of moonlight illuminate the snow like signal flares, falling from the clouds, letting us know exactly where we are. The snow is helping us find ourselves, but our cigarettes keep us lost in our invisible blanket of warmth. We’re not ready to remember what it’s like to be cold yet. Not yet. We just keep taking puffs and inhaling the smoke and shaking off the ashes into the snow.
It seems like we’ve been walking nowhere for hours, because neither of us have said a word. The only sounds gracing our ears are the cars passing by and the snow crunching beneath our feet. She finally breaks the silence. “Do you ever wish you could leave this world full of concrete and cars?” I’ve never been very good with questions, so I just say yes. “Sometimes I just lie in bed, awake, thinking of what it would be like to live in a small town. To be able to keep warm by sitting by a fire instead of relying on a cigarette’s fake heat. To be able to find somewhere you belong by walking with no intention of ending up anywhere.” She shouldn’t be opening up to me like this. She should know that she doesn't mean that much to me. How could she? We just met.
She keeps on talking. I feel guilty for letting her tell me all about herself while barely saying anything to her, so I decide to tell her something about myself. I’m not sure what I’m going to tell her, so I just start talking and hoping something interesting comes out of it. I’m not even listening to what I say, but she’s smiling, so it must be working. She says she’s getting tired and that her apartment is just around the corner. She invites me in. I feel bad about accepting her invitation, but I accept it nonetheless. The elevators aren’t working, so we climb twenty flights of stairs. It feels like a hundred.
She opens her door and takes off her coat and scarf. She throws it over the couch. I take my coat off as well, but I keep it with me, in my arms, like I’m not planning to stay very long. Her apartment is nice. Everything is neat, like she barely spends any time here. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I should tell her to forget the wine. She’s treating me too well, seeing as I’ve barely talked to her and wine is far too expensive for someone you’ve just met. Not to mention the fact that I hate the taste of wine. But I drink the glasses down and she keeps re-pouring them, like I love the taste. After a couple glasses, I toss my coat onto the couch with hers. Come to think of it, she’s like the wine that she keeps refilling my glass with. She’s tough to swallow, but if you can learn to stand it, you’ll eventually get drunk on her. And I think I’m getting drunk on her. Maybe it’s just the alcohol talking. Yeah, that’s it. It has to be the alcohol. I should know that she doesn't mean that much to me. How could she? We just met.
But we sat there on her couch, all night, and talked about everything and anything. I opened up to her, and I don’t think it was the alcohol talking. I had put out my cigarette long ago, and I didn’t feel the need to light another one any time soon.
so i wrote a story with someone.
he wrote the first 4 paragraphs
and i wrote the rest of it.
plz read it.
EDIT: i'm making this entry public :)
WINE & CIGARETTES
I step into the darkness, hard luck pressed against my chest. The glow from her cigarette sways like a junebug. She reaches forward, puts it out on my arm and says, "I'm sorry; I thought you were an ashtray." It's dark, so I forgive her. I ask her name, she asks for mine and I'm pretty sure we both lied. We find a seat and the small talk begins. We're just looking to fuck, so I don't know why we bother with it. The discussion moves to family which makes me think she's thinking too much or looking too hard. She should know that she doesn't mean that much to me. How could she? We just met.
She says she's got to go, and I'm trying hard to act disappointed. She hands me a phone number that I'll call when I'm bored or alone. On her way out the door, I feel sick. The nausea is temporary, but the feeling is permanent. I run after her and all the cigarettes follow me like stars chasing the moon. “Are you leaving for something important?" I ask. "I'd love to talk to you”. She stops and says “I was just leaving because I couldn't tell you that I can't do this anymore.” I pull up my sleeve and show her the burn. “You owe me a cup of coffee.” She sighs. Laughs. Smiles. She says okay.
I try to keep up with her, but she’s talking way too fast. It doesn't matter because all of her words form halos around my ears. She's got the face of an angel and the voice of a Saint but all the grace of Buddha. I'm trying to talk intelligently but I'm just coming off dumb. She calls me special and in my state of reverence I take that as a compliment. Her hand finds its place in mine, and our conversation dies in our palms. But we're still talking. Yeah, we're still talking.
The coffee shop is closed. I knew it would be and I should be feeling guilty. She smiles empathetically, and she knows I knew. I knew she'd know, anyway. She says I've got pretty eyes and I fumble to accept the compliment. I say something poetic and she calls me a suck up. We kiss. Slow and mesmerizing. It felt like Wes Anderson had orchestrated our hands. Tongues. Hearts. To this surreal moment in time. “Home is just a heartbeat away,” I say. She puts her arms around me as if I’d provide her with some warmth. We both know I can’t, but she keeps holding on.
She lets go of me to light a cigarette. “It’s surprising how much warmth a lit cigarette can provide for a cold hand,” she explains. “Sometimes my hand gets so warm that I forget what it’s like to be cold. Sometimes.” I tell her that I haven’t had a smoke in a long time. She offers me one. I want to refuse, but something inside me tells me not to. She lights it for me and I hold it to my mouth. I inhale the smoke, and I realize how right she was. It fills my lungs and I feel my entire body warm up. A moment ago I remembered why I quit, but the heat from the cigarette made me forget. Maybe it was because it made me feel so warm that I forgot what it was like to be cold. Maybe it was just because I realized I was only tricking myself into thinking the artificial warmth really made me happy.
Since the coffee shop is closed, we just keep walking down the street. I don’t have any intention of going anywhere in particular, and I don’t think she does either. I look up at the sky. Columns of moonlight illuminate the snow like signal flares, falling from the clouds, letting us know exactly where we are. The snow is helping us find ourselves, but our cigarettes keep us lost in our invisible blanket of warmth. We’re not ready to remember what it’s like to be cold yet. Not yet. We just keep taking puffs and inhaling the smoke and shaking off the ashes into the snow.
It seems like we’ve been walking nowhere for hours, because neither of us have said a word. The only sounds gracing our ears are the cars passing by and the snow crunching beneath our feet. She finally breaks the silence. “Do you ever wish you could leave this world full of concrete and cars?” I’ve never been very good with questions, so I just say yes. “Sometimes I just lie in bed, awake, thinking of what it would be like to live in a small town. To be able to keep warm by sitting by a fire instead of relying on a cigarette’s fake heat. To be able to find somewhere you belong by walking with no intention of ending up anywhere.” She shouldn’t be opening up to me like this. She should know that she doesn't mean that much to me. How could she? We just met.
She keeps on talking. I feel guilty for letting her tell me all about herself while barely saying anything to her, so I decide to tell her something about myself. I’m not sure what I’m going to tell her, so I just start talking and hoping something interesting comes out of it. I’m not even listening to what I say, but she’s smiling, so it must be working. She says she’s getting tired and that her apartment is just around the corner. She invites me in. I feel bad about accepting her invitation, but I accept it nonetheless. The elevators aren’t working, so we climb twenty flights of stairs. It feels like a hundred.
She opens her door and takes off her coat and scarf. She throws it over the couch. I take my coat off as well, but I keep it with me, in my arms, like I’m not planning to stay very long. Her apartment is nice. Everything is neat, like she barely spends any time here. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I should tell her to forget the wine. She’s treating me too well, seeing as I’ve barely talked to her and wine is far too expensive for someone you’ve just met. Not to mention the fact that I hate the taste of wine. But I drink the glasses down and she keeps re-pouring them, like I love the taste. After a couple glasses, I toss my coat onto the couch with hers. Come to think of it, she’s like the wine that she keeps refilling my glass with. She’s tough to swallow, but if you can learn to stand it, you’ll eventually get drunk on her. And I think I’m getting drunk on her. Maybe it’s just the alcohol talking. Yeah, that’s it. It has to be the alcohol. I should know that she doesn't mean that much to me. How could she? We just met.
But we sat there on her couch, all night, and talked about everything and anything. I opened up to her, and I don’t think it was the alcohol talking. I had put out my cigarette long ago, and I didn’t feel the need to light another one any time soon.