(no subject)
She's not beautiful. Her dark hair hangs around her face like clumps of tangled wool, too heavy for her thin pale face, almost unnatural. Smudges of black eyeliner messily overshadow her eyes, reminding him of the scribbles he made with charcoal on the sides of newly whitewashed walls. Her face is similar to the walls also - chalky white and almost sallow and she should, by rights, be considered unattractive. But she's not.
There's an atmosphere about her -- he thinks of it as an "aura," although that's altogether too mystical -- and the inky-blackness surrounding the club seems to radiate towards her, in swirls of dark. It wants to consume her, he thinks. Because she's so pure. But maybe, he's just had too much to drink. Because at 1 in 12, cigarettes, alcohol and drunken makeouts are a must; not quite sex, drugs 'n' rock 'n' roll but definitely on the way there. But she's not, not in the slightest, and it's just so fucking weird to him. She stands alone at the opening to the dark alley, which is filled with clusters of teenagers -- outside 1 in 12 is more of an alternative hangout than the club itself -- and, holding a bottle of something in one hand, she calls out for their attention.
"Hey." Her voice is quiet, but clear enough to get noticed and sharp enough to cut through the drunken and raucous laughter. They all fall silent, one by one by one, and heads slowly turn in her direction. "Does anyone feel like taking my first kiss?" He can't believe that it's her first, but he knows it is, knows she couldn't lie. All the boys glance around, suddenly staring at the sky, their feet -- anyone but her. Because they can't do it. They want to, but they can't.
And Frank's friends turn and look at him. It seems so well-rehearsed that it could be a scene from a old movie, but it's not. Three pairs of eyes on him, and none directly on her. Only side glances, discreet looks. And Frank can't help thinking that it's not fair. Can't help thinking that all eyes should be on her. And he wants to be the one to take her kiss. He wants it so badly, more than anything else in the world right now. But he's struck by the same incurable disease as everyone else -- unable to move, to call out "I will." Her face is falling, she looks disappointed. She looks as though she didn't think anyone would want to anyway. She looks as though that's why no one's moving. But it's not. It's the opposite. She just can't see it.
And Frank's friends say, Aren't you going to do it?
They say, You've been looking at her all night.
They say, This is your chance.
And finally, losing patience, John "Hambone" Maguire screws up his courage and says, "Dude." Licks his dry lips and says, "If you don't do it, I will."
And hey, Hambone kind of wants to be the one to do it, to do this. Poor, sweet Hambone, always watching while Frank gets all the girls without even trying. And if this had been any other girl, any other situation, Frank would've let him, would've let Hambone be the hero. But he knows that for her, it can't be a half-drunk Hambone, sloppily trying to impress. It shouldn't even be a half-drunk Frank, but he's got a 50% advantage over the rest of the crowd. Straight-edge kids don't hang out at 1 in 12.
So Frank doesn't say anything. Instead, he extinguishs his cigarette and steps out of the shadows. He begins to walk up to where the girl is standing, in a pool of light from the only streetlamp.
And it's like his whole life has been leading up to this. It's like this is going to change everything, but he doesn't know what everything is. It's like that one point in the movies, where the music builds to the crescendo, where the people are on the edges of their seats. And he stops, a few metres away, for suspense. He's close enough to see the fear reflected in her eyes -- or is it just the light from the afore mentioned streetlamp? She can't believe she's resorted to this, she's reduced to this. Stood at the top of an alleyway, offering herself to any guy who's drunk enough to take her.
She wonders why he's stopped, if he's changed his mind. Dark eyes and dark hair, and an unreadable expression. He's not too bad. Not really. Hands shoved deep in faded denim pockets, he walks the few remaining steps and she looks at him. Properly. She searches his face for any kind of meaning but the shadows from his beanie hat play with his features, and she grips the bottle tightly. Orders herself to go through with this.
She closes her eyes and he kisses her.
That's it. That's it. Short but slightly sweet and he's walking towards his friends without a backwards glance, already lighting up a new cigarette. Job done. End of. Leaving her there, alone, with eyes closed. Her first kiss, gone. Thrown away on some drunk boy, who couldn't care less. Who sees her as just another conquest.
She rides the bus home, staring out of the window, feeling used.
She lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling worthless.
Eyes open.
Now blink.
(Heartbreak In Stereo)