Comparative Scarring

I always find it surprisingly odd how the nite owls aren't who you think it'd be. It's great though, it really is. Surprisingly great, you could say. Just the people you'd want to be one. We've got the curtain on the sliding door pulled back and it's a clear night so we don't need any lights on, as we sit and talk and bullshit and catch up with each other and ourselves. I get up and pour some more soda, then stir in chocolate sauce. She scrunches up her face in the cute way that makes you forget how she got the scars on her arm. Almost anyways.

"What does that taste like?"

"Yumminess. Try some?"

"Nah, I'll just stick to my normal soda, thank you very much." She tosses a biting spin on normal. She's great.

"Missing out. Just like a root beer float with chocolate ice cream."

"I'm sure it is. Minus the root beer part."

"You take what you get."

And we sit and talk and pay no mind to the fact that it's slowly inching towards two in the morning. We were downstairs watching movies with her brother, her friend- my sister- and my sister's fiancée. When those two retired into their room, it wasn't too long before my friend- her brother; things get complicated- went to sleep. We were left up and went upstairs to snack and talk so we wouldn't wake him up. See, they visit every year during the summer because they used to live here. She's off in college now though, and he's between Nevada and Greece. If he had a choice, he'd be here or back in Germany. She's fine off in Utah for school, living it up with the wannabe cowboys and broken free Mormons. As for me, I'm fine here thanks, going into my last year of high school. I can't wait to leave here though. Sometimes you just get tired and you need a change of scenery, but when you've been tired for long years you accept it until you realize that hey, change is coming soon. Am I scared? You know, I probably am. But who's keeping score, right?

There's no reason I should be this comfortable around her. She's just so- there, I guess. I can't think of a better way to describe it. If I had just met her half the drink would be spilled from my hand shaking. But she's always been around- relatively speaking, you know. It's just natural for us to be up late and talking. Me of course still fully clothed and her in a tank top and bright, cheery pajama pants. Rubbing my eyes I take off my glasses and set them on the table.

"So are you still going blind?"

She tries my glasses on. Grinning, she says "Yeah, pretty much." I think about trying her little metallic purple glasses on, but then think of how I'd probably break them. I'm clumsy like that. She hands them back and I set them on the table. Don't exactly need them for a distance of three feet and besides, having things look fuzzy is all the rage with the kids nowadays.

We talk about whatever comes to mind. It's easy to talk to her, and for minutes at a time we'll talk about what we're talking about. You should try it sometime, but you probably do it without knowing it. She praises how fast my guitar skills have picked up since a year ago, not knowing that I'm still not nearly as good as any of my friends and the only reason I'm mediocre is because of late nights lubricating the frets with my blood. I ask how her partying is going, and she says strong as ever. She even has new battle scars to show off.

"This," she says, pointing to a white crescent moon, "was when I was dancing on a bar, and I slipped in some spilled vodka. I was getting up and sliced myself on a candle holder- it was stainless steel and was like one of those wrought iron gates where they come to points- and it sliced a patch of skin clean off." She turns around and pulls a bit of her pajama pants down at her right hip.

"And this was being hit by a shot of whiskey that was on fire and being tossed across the room." It's a sight that shouldn't be beautiful, but it kind of is. There are different colors, and it's an interesting kind of splatter- like it was sugar glass and burst apart.

"Damn," is all I can manage.

"That one hurt for weeks. It's still kind of sensitive." I run my hangs along it. It's sick and beautiful. Like some kind of tattoo done by a half-insane half-sadistic post modernist.

"I know it doesn't beat yours, but feel my finger." She reaches out and touches the tip of my middle finger on my left- fretting- hand. "No skin, just smooth from the playing. Now, I'm not trying to say anything here, but I think I won that round."

"Sure did."

Nothing remarkable happens in the conversation past that point, until I can't stand the light going through the empty paneled glasses and hitting the table in fragmented patterns. I look up and she's half-shaded in by the lack of light.

"I, uh...uh-I, uh," well at least I'm not stuttering, "I like you. A lot. I always have and I probably always will."

In the split second before she speaks time decides to stop. I can look up and see distant stars. I can see the fluttering of the neighbor's light that's near ready to die. I look into her eyes and I see her soul.

"I know. I don't."

"I know." I get up. She looks like she just hurt herself while hurting me, but I'm beyond that. I can play this off.

"More soda?"

"Sure."

I'm into the fridge when I hear her talking to me.

"And make it chocolate."