she sat at the foot of her bed, mindlessly surveying her options, but the threads of her college closet could not resurrect the necessary inspiration to get dressed. the walls lamented the pressure of peers-- if you listened hard enough, you could hear their rapture. the voices from beyond their porous plaster vaults came alive with the salacious jabberings of inconsequential intrigues. halloween had come again.
nothing was going to happen at this rate. she stood and languorously walked towards the kitchen. the floor was dirty-- a welcomed contradiction to her porcelain feet. she entered a flurry of hurried action mirroring the perfunctory footsteps of a headless chicken. everybody seemed to have a direction, at least an idea: they knew what they were wearing or at least they knew how to fuck it.
she poured herself some sunset blush. this was the year she learned that wine came in boxes.
she pivoted, paused. she grabbed the box and went back to the foot of her bed. she was getting somewhere.
another glass.
it was really far too late to continue thinking. it was time to wrap-it up, and so she did-- these 2 hours of mindless mindful costumery wound up wrapped-up, as an accessory to her blush and leopard slippers, in a yoga mat.
the musty stench of distilling trash wafted from the kitchen corner as she took a shot of whiskey. the rush of air resigned to her only unoccupied frontal orifice would make a lasting olfactory footprint-- but she wouldn't be aware of this for a few years. it burned. and in an act of reverse disney indoctrination, she left the house at midnight, clad only in a purple mat and a drunk jacket. oh, and the leopard slippers.
she crossed the small town, cutting through the memories surrendered to parking lots and train tracks. and she began to dance as the tiny drops of rain sanctified her peregrine feet on the road to her party mecca. rain, a small price to pay to the party gods. each drop an audit for the gilded faces of her friends, each drop taxing vanity, each drop recounting the decision not to take a sweater. but no matter, flanks armed with the metallic taste of sanguinary metaphor they stumbled through the valley in strides incongruous. in lingerie they laced the streets with waltzing footsteps, and felt, though there was, absolutely no evil. they were mighty.
drunk on arrival, a hunter and a yoga mat walked into the party. she absorbed the stares in her direction. the shameless spunk of a wet, gleaming yoga mat sandwiched between the halcyon bodies of half-dead, pretend, sexy versions of something, was a lot to swallow. they fanned out in search of creature comforts: drink, dank, drunk, sex, funk &/or danger.
he poured in through the doorway like a flood, or like the destiny of water manifested in shipwrecks. he consumed her. first through the slanted tentative temptation in flirting eyes, then, with slow purpose, the undressing of her tresses to seduce with naked cinnabar speckled shoulders.
the hours turned to connive a mutiny of time, and there was once a day that knew no shadows. in his makeshift room, no windows, she read the words written on his walls, like hieroglyphics. "Balls", Ghandi, Ginsgerg and all the great unpublished works of our time immortalized on walls of tangerine and neon green. if only she could remember what she wrote.
she sat at his feet, cold. she shared her leopard slippers as she turned to listen to his eyes. intoxicated by thundering heartbeats masked by a cacophonous cocktail of music and desire, he knelt before her. and outside, all the while, the rain danced, concerting with a symphony of heart monitors...
on her arm, he began to trace the blueprints of raindrops' chaos with his tongue. he followed the paths laid by chance, circumstance and precipitation. she was wet. his fingers fumbled as the mystery of the yoga mat unraveled before his eyes...and the safety pin was eventually torn off.
still adorned, she lounged on elbow and thigh, fingers mingling with hair, consorting with her scalp. she forced herself to look at his face, obscured by lashes and nervous glances. tracing contours, her eyes followed the familiar map of her own body, treasured. she finds her feet, those leopard slippers- mangled artifacts, testaments to a Festival of Drunkenness. she began to slip them, sopping, from her soles as he grasped the edge of her royal mat and rolled her right out.
