The Property Of: Neena Eellante | ✓ |

25. Sincerely, Dancer of the night

The type of chill that settles under the warmth of ones clothes, that stings eyes and leaves a prickling feeling upon your skin had torn through my coat without remorse.

In an effort to escape the cold, Boy of Friday and his few friends had crammed themselves into a smoothie bar. I hadn't followed straight away — I didn't even know they left actually.

I had stood somewhat in the middle of the road, somewhere between the white line and beaten-in parked car on the curve but my focus had been drawn to the park.

Children were playing.
Coats of Red and souls of Gold, nothing but laughter and each other on their minds. The cold didn't effect them.

The longing for warmth in not only company of people — of laughter, but in weather all of which had pulled me away from the children, the road and the bruised car.

The first thing I had noticed when I had entered the smoothie bar wasn't the people who turned their heads, wasn't their expressions but rather, the girl of Gold behind the counter.

Stricken with a thick sticky form of guilt that had seemly sewn my lips together and clogged my throat.

I'm not really sure what happened during the  gathering, I knew she had worked and served our table twice but I can't remember what I was actually doing.

I do remember the well-used curtains that hung limply near the fogged windows , the bearable chatter and half empty glasses.

But I know, I can still feel the tingle on my lips  that craved more than fake laughter but i wouldn't — I can't.
I wouldn't check if they owned a bathroom, if it was empty. I wouldn't go past my promised amount.
I wouldn't be Her.

I somewhat tried to ignore the cold flask that was tucked into my jeans, the metal digging  into my spin when I leant back into the seat. It had been cold but the constant body warmth had heated the metal — the guilt faded as I greedily fell into an accepted drunken numbness.

Everything seemed easier with Gin. Anxiousness faded, guilt dissolved into laughter and memories seemed not to haunt but to crease to exist altogether.

Scott, Boy of Friday, knocked my side with his elbow before cocking his head to somewhere behind me. Room swaying slightly I had turned and to meet eyes with him.

Soren Mckinin was leaning against the counter, his body leaning towards the golden girl as he looked at me, his eyebrows creasing.

Fear seeped and dripped into my conscience through my drunken state as he stared at me. Why was he staring at me like that? Could he tell I was faintly drunk?

Somewhat awkwardly I waved.
He didn't wave back.

"Didn't think he was into those girls." Scott had said, a distance in his voice as if he body was far from my own — his hand snaked around my waist.

His hand rested in curve of my waist, hot against my cold skin as his fingertips traced my spin before stoping altogether.

Jaw clenched, eyes fixated on something better; something that would hold instead of hurt. A plead — a longing hard gaze casted at Soren as Scott gripped the flask, his fingers burning.

His lips found my ear, his breath hot and smothering, "What the fuck is this?"

Rouge tears arose as I pulled my eyes from something better, something I wasn't meant to feel or have. My eyes had fallen upon and I knew I was screwed the moment ours met.

"Gin."
Lips broken, cracked. Skin stiff, dull.
Eyes blurred and tired.

Scott had looked at me lovingly, as if he loved. A gentle hand that seemed trusting tucked a piece of my golden hair away from my face.

I didn't flinch, that was surprising.

A crooked form of love clouded his eyes that I didn't know how to return, "You're better when drunk."

Better at making nights less cold for others, I guess.

Sincerely,
Dancer of the night