me. Guess it doesn’t matter.
I reach one of the booths we have reserved, and
I’m surprised to see Porter sitting alone.
I throw my body in the booth, kind of pissed off
at Harlow, for which I’m not sure why, but even more angry that
Elton Joel is feeding her lines that she clearly doesn’t know are
lines.
I guzzle my beer as I sit, Porter is very
quiet.
“What’s up with you?”
Porter stares over my shoulder, obviously
perturbed about something.
“I’m fine,” he says with his mouth in a hard
line.
“Don’t look like you’re fine. What’s the
deal?”
He snorts, “I guess I could ask you the same
thing. Looked like you were burning a hole right through that guy
talking to Harlow. You use your x-ray vision to see if he was a
jerk? We all know you have Superman-like powers.”
I glance back to them, watching as Harlow
continues to laugh at Elton Joel’s come-on’s.
“Nothing,” I say, feeling offended he would even
ask me such a question. It doesn’t bother me she’s talking to him,
why should it? I can just smell a load a crap a mile away, and
Elton Joel is full of it.
“Girls seem to be having fun and making new
friends. Good for them. You see some of the chicks in here? We
should be doing the same stuff, instead of sitting here with our
dicks in our hands.”
Porter just shakes his head.
“I’m fine. I need another beer.” He signals a
waitress to come to our table.
The lights dip, and Max’s band takes the stage.
The kid is so damn talented, and the girls have never seen him
play. This was the perfect opportunity for them to watch Max and
the band, but as they began to play, the girls’ interests appear to
be on other things. The guy flies move to the beat along with the
girls, and by the looks of it, the girls like the music, but could
give a shit less that it’s Max up there.
Max plays his heart out, singing backup on some
vocals. The crowd pushes towards the stage, some dancing, and some
even gyrating to the beat of the music. Hands up, swaying back and
forth, beer bottles raised, with some patrons singing along to the
covers the band performs. I stay in our booth because we have a
pretty perfect view of the stage from where we are. The waitress
keeps the beers coming, and we throw them back like they’re bottled
water.
The band continues to play, and I’ve been trying
to keep an eye out for Harlow, but I don’t see her. Porter looks
like he’s going out of his mind for some reason, and my head, my
poor big head goes from one shoulder to another, searching for her,
wondering if she’s ok with Elton Joel. And now I spot her.
Her sundress-clad ass rubbing up against Elton
Joel’s khaki panted front.
Fuck me.
Harlow’s arm is draped around his neck from
behind, she reaches up running her fingers through his hair. His
lips graze her bare shoulder, his one arm resting across her belly,
pulling her in closer. Their rhythm matched, step by step, never
seeming out of sync. She eases her head to the side so he can have
better access to her neck, as he plants a row of kisses from behind
her ear, down the length of her neck. Harlow’s eyes are closed, her
hair swinging from side to side to the charge of the electric bass.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. I taste the coppery-flavored
blood, feeling the sting of it. I wonder why watching her move
makes me angry. Her moving with him, against him.
I’m willing myself to turn around, to look away,
but this girl is stepping outside her shell. She seems free, moving
her body in ways I have never seen. The fluency of her arms and
legs, the way she dips her knees down, gracefully messy with the
sway of her hips, grinding into him as she rises up again.
She moves like a swan, not like the stiff,
too-large-of-a-vocabulary girl, who tolerates me.
The night we were together, she moved like a
hungry tiger, feral and cold, waiting for the kill. Tonight, her
body is relaxed, no weight of the world bearing down on it. It’s
just
I reach one of the booths we have reserved, and
I’m surprised to see Porter sitting alone.
I throw my body in the booth, kind of pissed off
at Harlow, for which I’m not sure why, but even more angry that
Elton Joel is feeding her lines that she clearly doesn’t know are
lines.
I guzzle my beer as I sit, Porter is very
quiet.
“What’s up with you?”
Porter stares over my shoulder, obviously
perturbed about something.
“I’m fine,” he says with his mouth in a hard
line.
“Don’t look like you’re fine. What’s the
deal?”
He snorts, “I guess I could ask you the same
thing. Looked like you were burning a hole right through that guy
talking to Harlow. You use your x-ray vision to see if he was a
jerk? We all know you have Superman-like powers.”
I glance back to them, watching as Harlow
continues to laugh at Elton Joel’s come-on’s.
“Nothing,” I say, feeling offended he would even
ask me such a question. It doesn’t bother me she’s talking to him,
why should it? I can just smell a load a crap a mile away, and
Elton Joel is full of it.
“Girls seem to be having fun and making new
friends. Good for them. You see some of the chicks in here? We
should be doing the same stuff, instead of sitting here with our
dicks in our hands.”
Porter just shakes his head.
“I’m fine. I need another beer.” He signals a
waitress to come to our table.
The lights dip, and Max’s band takes the stage.
The kid is so damn talented, and the girls have never seen him
play. This was the perfect opportunity for them to watch Max and
the band, but as they began to play, the girls’ interests appear to
be on other things. The guy flies move to the beat along with the
girls, and by the looks of it, the girls like the music, but could
give a shit less that it’s Max up there.
Max plays his heart out, singing backup on some
vocals. The crowd pushes towards the stage, some dancing, and some
even gyrating to the beat of the music. Hands up, swaying back and
forth, beer bottles raised, with some patrons singing along to the
covers the band performs. I stay in our booth because we have a
pretty perfect view of the stage from where we are. The waitress
keeps the beers coming, and we throw them back like they’re bottled
water.
The band continues to play, and I’ve been trying
to keep an eye out for Harlow, but I don’t see her. Porter looks
like he’s going out of his mind for some reason, and my head, my
poor big head goes from one shoulder to another, searching for her,
wondering if she’s ok with Elton Joel. And now I spot her.
Her sundress-clad ass rubbing up against Elton
Joel’s khaki panted front.
Fuck me.
Harlow’s arm is draped around his neck from
behind, she reaches up running her fingers through his hair. His
lips graze her bare shoulder, his one arm resting across her belly,
pulling her in closer. Their rhythm matched, step by step, never
seeming out of sync. She eases her head to the side so he can have
better access to her neck, as he plants a row of kisses from behind
her ear, down the length of her neck. Harlow’s eyes are closed, her
hair swinging from side to side to the charge of the electric bass.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. I taste the coppery-flavored
blood, feeling the sting of it. I wonder why watching her move
makes me angry. Her moving with him, against him.
I’m willing myself to turn around, to look away,
but this girl is stepping outside her shell. She seems free, moving
her body in ways I have never seen. The fluency of her arms and
legs, the way she dips her knees down, gracefully messy with the
sway of her hips, grinding into him as she rises up again.
She moves like a swan, not like the stiff,
too-large-of-a-vocabulary girl, who tolerates me.
The night we were together, she moved like a
hungry tiger, feral and cold, waiting for the kill. Tonight, her
body is relaxed, no weight of the world bearing down on it. It’s
just
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