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31_days2006-10-02 08:05 pm
acesodapop.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-10-02 08:05 pm
02 october . flcl . we complement each other
Title: we complement each other
Day/Theme: 02 oct // hello darkness my old friend
Series: FLCL
Character/Pairing: mamimi, narrator
Notes: pg, very barely! post-series.
Day/Theme: 02 oct // hello darkness my old friend
Series: FLCL
Character/Pairing: mamimi, narrator
Notes: pg, very barely! post-series.
edit: what the butt, html fix'd now, sorry guys!
-----
SHE is dynamic, by which I mean I'd never known a dynamic person, really only ever heard or read about them, but the moment I met her (collapsed in a drunken heap and hunched over a rust-covered toilet) one word came to mind, 'dynamic'. She's it.
She's pretty, and sad in the way only pretty girls can be, but hides it-- poorly, like pretty girls do. I want to help her, but she's alien and incurable and it's a terminal disease, sometimes, sadness.
Other times she's the direct opposite, ugly, and happy. She makes me laugh at her idiot antics and dances like mad in nothing but a pair of socks in my small two-room apartment and I try to catch her, blushing, because the one window I have has no curtains and the apartment neighbors across from me are two frat boys.
I do all-nighters before an exam, and somehow she always always knows, and is at the door when I answer the buzzer carrying a six-pack and two fancy wine glasses she stole earlier from a nice restaurant.
We pass the dead hours on the floor of the kitchen (slash dining room slash living room slash parlor) finishing off the six-pack; she always ends up stealing my glass halfway through, even with her own still mostly full lying by her feet. We dare each other to go down to the streets of the still-alive city and just walk around, drunk as we are, but we're both too scared (funny) and, even after all that alcohol, still painfully self-conscious (strange).
"I saw a robot once." She says dreamily. We're staring up at my white low ceiling and my neck and part of my shoulder is her pillow, and some of the ends of her hair are in my mouth, smelling strongly (and tasting vaguely) of smoke.
"What kind?" I'm used to it.
"Good kind. And bad. But still good." She rolls over to her side and finds a new cushion in the soft underarm area near my armpit (i squirm uncomfortably and uselessly for two seconds) and decides to fall asleep there, rendering my entire left arm immobile and to be numb for the whole morning. "I still see them, time to time." Her words get more mumbly and incoherent, but I'm still wide awake and selfish.
"Could I ever see them?"
"No," she answers, "they're mine." She shifts one more time, presses harder, telling me to end the conversation. "I'll try to take pictures of them for you next time." She puckers her lips and kisses the hairy part of my armpit, and I twitch and squirm some more. I can feel her smile against my skin.
*
-----
SHE is dynamic, by which I mean I'd never known a dynamic person, really only ever heard or read about them, but the moment I met her (collapsed in a drunken heap and hunched over a rust-covered toilet) one word came to mind, 'dynamic'. She's it.
She's pretty, and sad in the way only pretty girls can be, but hides it-- poorly, like pretty girls do. I want to help her, but she's alien and incurable and it's a terminal disease, sometimes, sadness.
Other times she's the direct opposite, ugly, and happy. She makes me laugh at her idiot antics and dances like mad in nothing but a pair of socks in my small two-room apartment and I try to catch her, blushing, because the one window I have has no curtains and the apartment neighbors across from me are two frat boys.
I do all-nighters before an exam, and somehow she always always knows, and is at the door when I answer the buzzer carrying a six-pack and two fancy wine glasses she stole earlier from a nice restaurant.
We pass the dead hours on the floor of the kitchen (slash dining room slash living room slash parlor) finishing off the six-pack; she always ends up stealing my glass halfway through, even with her own still mostly full lying by her feet. We dare each other to go down to the streets of the still-alive city and just walk around, drunk as we are, but we're both too scared (funny) and, even after all that alcohol, still painfully self-conscious (strange).
"I saw a robot once." She says dreamily. We're staring up at my white low ceiling and my neck and part of my shoulder is her pillow, and some of the ends of her hair are in my mouth, smelling strongly (and tasting vaguely) of smoke.
"What kind?" I'm used to it.
"Good kind. And bad. But still good." She rolls over to her side and finds a new cushion in the soft underarm area near my armpit (i squirm uncomfortably and uselessly for two seconds) and decides to fall asleep there, rendering my entire left arm immobile and to be numb for the whole morning. "I still see them, time to time." Her words get more mumbly and incoherent, but I'm still wide awake and selfish.
"Could I ever see them?"
"No," she answers, "they're mine." She shifts one more time, presses harder, telling me to end the conversation. "I'll try to take pictures of them for you next time." She puckers her lips and kisses the hairy part of my armpit, and I twitch and squirm some more. I can feel her smile against my skin.
*