(no subject)
as he's sliding on his ass down the hill, laugh, but feel bad about it. you know you're supposed to protect him, but most of the time he doesn't need it. he'll get a little snow up his sleeves, but that's what he gets for forgetting to bring the goddamn tube. fuckin kid. you'll help him up, maybe even let him get you sliding on your ass if he makes a go at it. it's just snow, after all.
it won't surprise you when he doesn't turn around, he'd rather sulk than face you; this feels good, the propriety implicit in the interaction. you'll skate down the hill on your worn pair of boots, pretty effortlessly really, stumbling over a loopholed root but definitely not falling. it's okay, he wasn't even looking. propriety.
when you see the hot chocolate's gone, you'll have to hit him, and you're surprised by how mad you seem, even to yourself. thick gloves and a thick coat prevent anything close to a bruise, he deserves it for sulking anyway. you change the radio station from kiss back to your mixtape; it's amazing that cars still come with tape decks, you'll think. the 90s were so fucking cool, you're glad you got to experience all of them. who's plowing these roads anyway? this whole fucking town's asleep, and it's only 9pm.
you'll get home and mom and pop are sleeping already, so you just ditch your shit and slide out onto the back porch for a smoke to start your night. you watch him through the glass door, your servant without you even asking, and you think about ways you can teach him to be a man. can't go around life just playing lapdog. maybe he'll live longer, but you'll live happier.
it won't surprise you when he doesn't turn around, he'd rather sulk than face you; this feels good, the propriety implicit in the interaction. you'll skate down the hill on your worn pair of boots, pretty effortlessly really, stumbling over a loopholed root but definitely not falling. it's okay, he wasn't even looking. propriety.
when you see the hot chocolate's gone, you'll have to hit him, and you're surprised by how mad you seem, even to yourself. thick gloves and a thick coat prevent anything close to a bruise, he deserves it for sulking anyway. you change the radio station from kiss back to your mixtape; it's amazing that cars still come with tape decks, you'll think. the 90s were so fucking cool, you're glad you got to experience all of them. who's plowing these roads anyway? this whole fucking town's asleep, and it's only 9pm.
you'll get home and mom and pop are sleeping already, so you just ditch your shit and slide out onto the back porch for a smoke to start your night. you watch him through the glass door, your servant without you even asking, and you think about ways you can teach him to be a man. can't go around life just playing lapdog. maybe he'll live longer, but you'll live happier.