It’s Not Even My Car

Small hours around two, middla night. I wanted to get back around midnight. But she was there, so I stayed. Mattera fact, she was the reason why I came here in the first place. I was thinking, why not stay home tonight get some sleep recharge batteries and all that. Cause I felt terrible since around seven in the evening. Might of been that pizza I ate. Nothing wrong with the pizza sure, a catalyser it was. Panic attack, I’d say. Heavy breathing. Reflux and pain in the stomach. Diarrhea. It’s always diarrhea, the harbinger of stress, the herald of fear. Driving there took me a while and I smoked whenever I could – terrible addiction that tobacco but makes me wanna puke less, mosta times. Picked up a friend and had to wait for him. Waiting I locked meself in the car paranoid. Classical music, soothe yer nerves they said on the radio. Finally me mate and I got to that rented apartment about ten, city centre, tooka wrong turn had to circle about awhile but got there eventually. Don’t talk to the security guard, they told us, cause motherfucker’s a pain. We slipped to the lift after a good-evening. He didn’t answer back. Up. Wrong lift. Down again. Another lift, different bloc or something. Up again. Second floor, room number eight. Here we are.

Me mate’s to-be brother-in-law. DJ. 

A tall speed-junkie who don’t drink cause he takes them mighty antibiotics for acne. Don’t seem to work so far. 

His friend, a speed guy too, and with his girlfriend, short bird. 

A tall girl, her childhood friend. 

Wannabe rockstar, shoulder-length hair ponytailed, muscled-up. Going climbing with that brother-in-law guy tomorrow, I hear. 

And her. She.

We sit together alright, tangled in a strange kinda position, to keep both of us warm and me keeping my asshole closed with my heel so as not to fart. I only sip cherry coke, driving t’night. Guys making lines on plate and in line to fill their nostrils. Can’t hold it any longer, better loosen them bowels up. Quick shit, no one noticed. Thank God. Don’t even stink so badly. Epic win.

Cigarettes I smoke alone after the guys are back from the balcony. They go shot after shot after shot with chasers, girls too. She doesn’t drink that much. She’s not feeling too well, she says. She gets excited over stupid things and takes everything personally and sometimes acts stupid and says stupid things and it’d be better she shut the hell up. I won’t say it to her tho. Don’t matter anyways. Tis what she is.

Tis what she’s always been. Tis how she speaks and moves. Tis how her ass looks like when she leans over and I get a full view of that leather-jeaned butt. Tis how she eats pizza, one slice, little sauce. Tis the kinda jokes she makes, I smile, don’t laugh really. Tis how her cold feet look like in white socks no shoes on. Tis how the tip of her nose moves up and down when she speaks. Tis how her chin doubles when she feels offended and her forehead frowns. Tis how her tucked-in shirt slips outta her jeans when she moves around too much. Tis how she wraps her arms rounda herself when she’s cold out there on the balcony as I finish my cigarette. Tis how she strokes my thighs and gets dangerously close to my penis when I drive her and the above-mentioned rockstar sexy guitarist to his basement studio to pick up some dope cause they’re running outta alcohol and all shops be closed by now and everyone wants a smoke so Imma just take em to the basement and back to the apartment and then head home – my eyelids closing, belly aching like a messerschmit, and I’m in such a pain physically and mentally I can’t even get a boner tho she virtually strokes the tipa me member. I wish.

Sad, sad songs play on the radio. I hate the radio tho this un’s decent gotta admit. Classics. The way we look at each other is so nostalgic and sentimental. You shouldn’t drive in here but I don’t care, streets vacant anyway, no cops around. Even if: I’m sober, sonsabithes can’t do me nothing. Back at the apartment, they go up, I don’t.

Hands clap with the rockstar bloke. In touch.

He goes out.

She’s shotgun so she just leans over to kiss me on the cheek. She didn’t kiss me on the cheek. Twas bound to happen. Guess we both planned it this way but never really agreed upon it. Happened anyway.

Lips touch. Seatbelt keeps me drilled to the seat. Pressure on stomach. Fuck, I feel bad. She dives her head closer. Tongue goes in. She is the love of my life. I imagined fireworks at least. My tongue in, once only. Can’t be bothered. Television lies, Hollywood bastards. Heads rotate, lips back again. She pushes closer closer closer. Why don’t I feel anything? Might be the pain. Goddamn why do I have to feel so terrible today – the big day, Judgement Day, the inevitable resolution of past doubts and fantasies, plot twist – gut twist. I touch her neck with my fingertips, gently. It looks good. It doesn’t make anything better. ‘Don’t want you to go alone,’ I say. That guy still waiting on her outsida car. One more kiss. I wanna sleep. Me eyes heavy despite the coffee before picking up the weed. One, just one more. ‘Bye,’ she says.

She goes out and the two of them walk away. The engine was on, automatic gears, I just put it from P to D – Drive, I guess? Turn the music up. Cry tunes, love em. That gas pedal to the ground and I’m outta here. Be home in half an hour, don’t know the way too much, intuition help me out, one-way roads no traffic lights. I look at the back seat but there is no plastic bag or whatever container. I’ll open the window if I gotta throw up. That’d do me good. When I pass them I honk twice. People sleep, no bother. No tasta her on my lips, no poetry here, just filth. I wanna do it again.


Published by Dawid Tysowski


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