Expectations. Expectations from parents, teachers, friends, siblings – yourself. Expectations to do the right thing and say the right words and be the world’s savior. Expectations loaded my shoulders and burdened my heart, but as I worked on my third wine cooler and tried to level my head, they all slowly started to fade into the wallpapered walls of Kyle Gilroy’s upper middle class home.
A Smiths CD played poignantly in the background, repeating the same melancholy song over and over again.
Golden lights displaying your name
Golden lights it’s a terrible shame
But oh my darling
Why did you change?
You kissed my lips over and over again and then moved on to my nose, my forehead, my ears, and my neck. Your lips were tender against my skin, leaving faint goosebumps when they left. Later – a minute, ten minutes, half an hour, I am not sure nor do I think it matters – you stopped and lay down beside me, scanning my face for any sign of emotion. I pressed my cheek into the carpet and inhaled the fragrant smell of marijuana and the brutal consequence of too much alcohol. I gazed at your face, attempting to see through those thick eyelashes and glazed over eyes. Neither of us said a word and only faint smiles hinted at our lips.
Alex and Carly sat near us, on Kyle’s parents’ bed, drinking from the same bottle of cheap beer and slurring profanities while the varsity quarterback and that girl from my English class groaned from the other side of the room. But even though our hearts were filled with more romanticism than that of all those in the house combined, a still, unfillable hollow continued to rattle through my chest. Pushing all cohesive, logical, honest thoughts out of my head, I kissed your hand with that cue, you resumed.
Fifteen minutes later, I lay on my back, staring up at the expensive crown molding lining the ceiling. I thought about the disappointment and horror Kyle’s parents would feel, wherever they were, if they ever found out about the things that took place on their sofas, beds, floors, and rugs tonight. I thought about the confusion and broken heartedness they would feel, knowing that in some way, they had already let their son down by allowing him to reach this point alone. Maybe they would feel all of this and more. Maybe. But maybe they honestly wouldn’t feel anything at all. We were all teenagers once.
I thought about how I could hear the crunching of plastic cups and clips of intoxicated laughter as clear as the nothing while you screwed me. Screwed. I’m sorry; I know that’s an empty word. Rightly so, though. An empty word for an equally empty action.
I pressed my red blouse against my chest, not even bothering to slip it back over my head. I knew you’d take me home, and I knew I’d smile and say “thank you”. I knew I could never bother to put any of my clothes back on and no one would notice or care. I knew no one would be home when I got there; that Josh wouldn’t get back until at least four and that I may not see mum until tomorrow night.
“Everyone lies about that, don’t they?” You asked me.
I sat up and nodded, “Nothing feels different.”
“I still love you.”
I told him I loved him too even though neither one of us meant it.
But I was honest in what I said before, nothing felt different. The music resounded a little louder and the smoke burned a little more than before, but nothing felt different. Nothing at all.
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