| Jul232007 | Scars |
I am updating and re-posting old blog entires with new titles.
This was originally posted on 11 May 2004 and was titled Comatose.
It’s 11pm. If he took these two girls home he would probably call it a night and go to bed. The non-comatose girl, a brunette, pleads with her big round eyes and she slips ten dollars above what he asked. He smiles weakly and motions for them to get in. It’s a cold Autumn night and it’s almost surreal to see so much flesh and so little clothing amongst these girls.
Non-Comatose drags her blonde friend into the back seat before she slips him a crumpled napkin with an address scrawled in a purple; he knows the area. She thanks him again and he catches a glimpse of down her top into those gorgeous tits before she starts walking away towards her huddled mass of friends. Something tells him that she’ll be calling her blonde friend in the morning and they’ll do it all again next week.
He feels the night air seeping in through the gaps of his jumper. He closes his door and lets the driver’s seat sigh around his doughy physique. He looks back at The Blonde; she’s not as comatose as she first looked – she’s trying to push her own hair out of eyes but continues to wear that thousand-mile stare. He notices her bra strap dangling across her elbow.
“Ready to go?” He keeps staring at her.
She finally speaks, “You know, I could fall in love with a man like you.”
The words aren’t very meaningful when they’re slurred.
The Blonde finally gives up and uses her hands to brush the hair from her face. Automatically, she pulls the bra strap back up to her shoulders and struggles to put on her seat belt. As if in protest, the other bra strap slides down to her left elbow. She casts an annoyed look on her chest before she leans back in her seat again.
He takes that as an affirmative and starts driving. He goes to start the meter but remembers he’s already been paid. He looks in the mirror and she’s staring back into his eyes as if she’s looking at something that shouldn’t be there. Strips of orange shadows dance across her half-shut eyes as the car rolls through the emptying streets. He reaches for the radio controls and starts flipping through the stations.
“No… please don’t. Talk to me.” Her voice is far away but more than that, there’s a deep regret in her words. Scars. She’s the kind of girl that he could never leave alone but that doesn’t mean he feels sorry for her. He hears that voice every weekend and the only thing that changes is the face it’s attached to.
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