Good Night

It's because of the glasses, right?

They've got me marked. They've got me pedaling back and forth from the prep school to my seat on Sleeping Forest like the high power CEO of a dark-practices company. Elite. But suave. Cool. No disrespecting the queen. You never catch a whiff of sweat off her no matter how hard she works. She got her musk glands removed the same time as her conscience.

But all I want is to come back from a club shit-faced with you, honey. I know exactly how it would look.

Oh, I bet you didn't know that you still had five inches of growing left to do before we're old enough to get into the best places. It's so obvious the way the top of my head is crammed into your armpit as we're walking out, leaning against the doorframe because our heads don't feel right. Your stomach's like a washboard from all you do. I get to see because in the middle of the dancing it got too hot to wear your shirt and you threw it off like it had somewhere to go.

There'll be neon lights caught in the sweat of your abs--I'll hear my sister's voices scoffing, Crazy Apple, why're you flushing now? You live with him, you see him half naked all the time. He walks around the house like that no matter how much we kick the shit out of him for that sick sight.

But Mikan, Ume, I'll drunkenly tell my sister sprites on my shoulder, you ever seen colors in his muscles? Have you ever been able to smell them, that kind-of gross salty spicy smell because we got ourselves wet head to toe just from dancing?

You ever see it just through squirming glances because you're squashed up against him, looking up and seeing the line of his unshaved jaw, and the outline of his afro pulled into spiky wet tufts like a chick after a bath?

Punk would've gotten wasted way quicker than you, leaning his sweet jerk weight against your back and his body feeling solid like a house. He'll be breathing flammable fumes into your hair and your nose and you'll take in mouthfuls of it. Nothing bothers you. Might have something to do your special Thorn-queen breath.

You dipshit, Mikan demon will cackle, it's never gonna happen.

It's got nothing to do with your glasses, Ringo-chan, dolly, Ume sprite will chime lovingly. You poor dumb baby.

Boy wasn't made to live in a foot-squared space of the dance floor. Boy wouldn't be able to keep still just moshing in place. Boy needs to cover some ground. Lateral distance. He'll pump every muscle in his body and run his heart to the max on the meter, but you'll never catch him sweaty. He air dries.

You too.

You don't sweat, remember? You will never stop at the same place and get wild together with the both of you having your feet firmly on the ground.

You've got an empire to run, spies to run down. Bye bye blackbird, little swallow, I've got you pinned.

Damn do you do good work, four-eyes Thorn Queen, your dukes and duchesses tell you in your little ring. Leave with over shoulder admiration and you cool on your throne or your desk as the bell rings for work night over, get the hell out of her throne-room-office-anti-gravity-antechamber. Leave the body in her tray.

You've got your own kind of a good night.

Author's Note: Blowing off some steam. Shoxxic rocks. Go read her(?) shit.