And I Would Have Stayed Up With You All Night
She sits on the usual bench under the ancient tree in the school courtyard, her head bent over some book or the other. If she is feeling down the apparent object of her undivided attention is a well worn copy of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby. If she is feigning scholarly inclinations she pours over Biology coursework. On particularly dreary mornings Kurt Cobain whispers profanities into her ears. She seems to reside in her own little world, her only companion a steaming mug of what appears to be coffee.
In the morning rush to get to the first class no one pays her much mind. In fact no one ever really notices her; she’s one of those people you see everyday but you never bother inquiring after her name. You both share a glance of acknowledgement as you pass her by but that’s the extent of your relationship and it’s probably the longest one either of you have ever had.
She pretends she doesn’t care if he doesn’t know she exists. She casually glances away when he passes by. She tries not to stare when he appears after class, his sleeves folded up to reveal his strong muscular arms toned well by his passion for drumming. She certainly doesn’t feel a sting when he absentmindedly plays with some girl’s hair in a free period. She doesn’t wish it was her hand he held when he walks about school at leisure talking about everything and nothing at the same time. He doesn’t notice the way she unconsciously smiles when he runs his hand through his black hair. He doesn’t realise that when she listens to Lifehouse she knows that they reflect his thoughts. She knows his band is called Yvaine not because it sounds cool but because in his opinion Stardust deserves recognition for its sheer awesomeness. Who knew he was a romantic? She doubts that he even knows her name. He doesn’t know that the colour of her head bands reflects her mood from day to day. Does he know that hanging from the chain around her neck is the exact replica of the Claddagh ring Angel gave Buffy on her birthday as a token of his eternal love? He doesn’t see her though. Or does he?
Brandon, that’s his name. She loves the way it rolls off her tongue effortlessly. She longs for him to acknowledge her presence in the only class they share but alas she has always been a fly on the wall observing his life without being noticed in return. She knows by the way his jaw clenches that he disagrees with a certain point raised in the discussion. She can tell when he gets excited as the argument turns in his favour by the slight glimmer in his eyes… it brings into his brown eyes the most delightful shade of amber. Her heart almost stops when she looks at him. He is a universally acknowledged hottie that’s for sure but his chiselled appearance plays a very small role in her infatuation with him. It certainly helps though. She feels that if he only knew of her existence he would see the error of his ways and they would be perfectly happy together. She knows all his tells; she understands the emotion behind his music and they both know that his supposed bad boy persona is just that. Her hand itches to touch his face and make him look into her eyes; all the answers lie in her eyes, if he could only be made to see.
Lying in bed she imagines what it would feel like to kiss him:
Their eyes would meet and she would be drowned in the same muddy passion that possesses his soul every time he reads Shakespeare aloud. Tortured and crippled with desire he would say her name: Dominique. His voice, whispering, gentle and laced with emotion would make her fall in love with her name for the first time in her life. The sound of his voice alone would make the hair on the back of her neck stand on end; a thrill like sensation would pass through her body enhancing her senses to superhuman proportions. She would suddenly become aware of how big his hands really were and how warm they felt on her cheek. His lips would appear more inviting than Eden itself. He would lean in and she would be able to make out how extraordinarily long his eyelashes really were. She would close the gap between them with graceful ease and their lips would meet. Warmth would spread throughout her body, ebbing away from the point of contact and she would blossom like a flower with the first kiss of spring, his touch arousing within her an emotion she felt for no one else. She would bequeath her heart to him in that very moment.
****
He sits besides her on the very same bench, under the same old tree in the same crowed courtyard while she pretends to read some atrocity that passes for Classical Literature in her pretentious little head. He is sitting very close to her, too close for comfort for all the other chits that pass for women in this day and age. Its not that she is now, what term is he looking for here? Yes! “Fast” or anything it’s just that she is completely oblivious to anything and everything happening around her. Her nose comes out of the thing (he is not going to deem that thing a book) in her hand every few minutes and she glances towards the entrance with a mixture of longing and feigned nonchalance. Oh yes how can one forget? She’s waiting for that twit of a Homo sapien, Brandon to rear his big, ugly head. Brandon. What sort of a name is that anyway?! She is so in love with that guy no scratch that she is infatuated with the guy to such an extent that she and he quotes here “Can’t believe he is still a virgin, he is saving himself for his one true love.” O my Lord what a fucking asshole, firstly the term virginity is a relative one in this Whoreville of a world we live in and secondly the boy can’t stop flaunting his conquests in the back of his car into any ones and every ones face and lastly he’s a teenage boy with raging hormones who is in a band. The chances of his not having given up his “DAISY” yet are non existent much like Paris Hilton’s underwear. What world does Dom even live in?
He notices that she is wearing her hair down today and her head band is the exact colour of her eyes; a sapphire; the colour of the sea just before dawn. So she must be feeling good about herself today. He smiles to himself, making a note of her particular mood somewhere in the back of his head and continues listening to the soothing drone of Johnny Cash and his infamous guitar. He doesn’t tell her he noticed her hair or her earrings. He never tells her. His shoulder touches hers and he is content to just sit with her his arm resting on her lap. His brain registers the fact that she doesn’t cringe at his touch or push him away and a glimmer of hope shines through the dejected mass of thoughts that cloud his mind. He stifles the hope with one bare claw; she doesn’t think of him that way, her consciousness is a victim of the false charms of jerks like Brandon Fisher. The Graysons of this unfair world never get a fighting chance for girls like Dom, they are stuck in the friend’s zone in fact they are the mayors of the friend’s zone. Grayson muses as to how he has come to like this person sitting next to him absorbed in, he’s sure, undressing with her eyes the one guy he would never want her to end up with.
Maybe it was their first argument in English class, he doesn’t remember exactly what they battled over but he remembers that her eyeliner that day was of a particularly fetching purple and the way she turned away from him had set his pulse pacing for no apparent reason. She had called him dogmatic as if the argument had been won and for the first time in his life he had shut the hell up.
She takes liberties with him that he wouldn’t allow any other person to take. She lists all his faults mounting them in disdain as though her word is the authority governing his behaviour. He messes up her hair in passing just so that he can have a reason to touch her, her hair smells of jasmine and something sweet, he adores the scent, he can’t get enough of it. He criticises her choice of reading, he frowns at her taste in movies and he calls her a bitch every time she says something insightful about him. She tells him he stinks when he smokes and refuses to talk until he drowns the scent down with some strong smelling liquid. She really doesn’t mind the smoke he knows that, it just reminds her of her father and she’d rather not go there.
His heart dies to look at her suffering just because one creep doesn’t wakeup and look at her. How anyone can stand to be near her and not be moved by her is beyond him. It really doesn’t get any better than her.
****
They always sit on the same bench, under the creaky tree in the most secluded corner of the courtyard. That bench is know as Pompadour’s boudoir by those of the student population who have had chance to experience the pleasures it may afford, if one has a skilful agent on the arm. The shade afforded by the tree makes it the ideal spot for said activities. It bothers him that they sit there all the time. It doesn’t matter that she reads there, she always reads there but why does he have to be with her every where she goes? It bothers him that he keeps touching her. It puzzles him that she doesn’t tell him to fuck off. What is it about that Grayson that she likes? All the gossip nannies presume that they are an item but he can’t believe that. They share a class every Tuesday and she seems so refined and tasteful why would she go out with that thing? He notices her every morning; she seems to read a lot. He thinks that Pride and Prejudice is probably her favourite novel, if he were a member of the fairer sex he’d have a crush on Darcy too. Darn books, they just make life more difficult, girls want romance and let’s face it there is no place for romance in an up and coming musician’s life. Its wham bam thank you ma’am for him and he likes it that way. But there is just something about this girl that intrigues him. She has that face that exudes strength; no one dare mess with this girl, her eyes are soft and pure though. Her lips always curl up into the most adorable smile when she reads Marquez. The lack of make up on her visage surprises him; pleasantly.
He doesn’t exactly know when he started to notice the quiet girl in Literature, all he knows is that when she speaks her mind against some ridiculous notion of his he feels a sudden gush of excitement cruise through his body and he can barely repress a smile. He likes being negated by her.
How strange.
She’s imperfect to say the least but that is actually why he can’t take his eyes off her when she lets her hair loose to rearrange into a prim looking bun. When her hair falls on her face, it creates such an illusion of fantasy and he can barely catch his breath.
He had heard her singing to herself once. Her eyes closed, a thoughtful expression on her face, she had looked divine. She sang something painful he couldn’t recall what but the very image of her had somehow curled his thin lips into an unmistakable smile.
In his perception she is easily the most fascinating piece of ass he has ever been into and he has been into some wild ones. “Tut tut” chides his conscience whenever he forgets himself and reverts to his usual self when thinking of her. She is no ordinary girl, he knows that but somehow he can’t help his imagination. He pictures himself running a lone finger down her neck, he holds her close, his hand discreetly slips under her dress, and he unhooks her frilly bra and as the flimsy thing falls from her she half heartedly tries to push him away but he holds on. She gives in and amidst little moans worshipping his name he takes her on the rock and roll train to the promise land.
He snaps out of it every single time as he sees her laughing at some remark made by Gray McLooser, the pathetic little wannabe rebel, with his messed up hair and slogan t-shirts. Who gives a damn about Somalia anymore, its so last year bro.
Her laughter sounds like bells chiming in the distance, with the promise of joy. Give it up to GAY son for raining on his parade. That boy has hated him since the eighth grade when he didn’t have enough game to compete for the best looking gals on the cheerleading squad. Speaking of which, Britney is feeling adventurous her thong is hot pink today!
****
Note from the author: High school stinks.