I didn’t follow your line or tense exactly, darlin’, but this story is for you — and especially inspired by you — nevertheless. I hope you enjoy it! <3
The first time you play a set that gets the crowd up and grooving with you, like, really feeling the beat, you look across the sea of bobbing heads and swaying bodies and you see her speckled by the shine coming off the stadium lights, smiling that knowing little smile that makes the dimple in her right cheek stick out. You laugh. You laugh and it’s all for her, and she rolls her head back on her shoulders. You think she might be laughing with you.
You’re friends for a while before anything else happens, before she leans over the popcorn bowl one night. She pretty much crawls on top of you next, and she’s heavier than you. She’s also not very careful with her elbows or her knees, but you forgive her when she takes your hand and guides it up to moosh it against her boob. She says, “We should make out.” Her tiara is blue in the TV’s glow, her eyes slanted and sly, and when she smiles you think her teeth are sharper than yours. She sucks your lip into her mouth. You die for the second time in your life. It’s awesome.