thewordofweb: (GIRL: lounge)
It's already sunset by the time I'm up at the Compound in the khaki shorts and the blouse Joe found, all ruffles and blue satin and white polka-dots that make me feel like I'm stuck in someone's poor fashion parade. I'm due for a movie in an hour or two, but I still want to drop in on Grant with the food I've picked up from the kitchen and the books I'd brought (Alice in Wonderland, Emma, and War and Peace).

Of course, that we're nearing seventy-two hours and I'm still the way I am frightens the crap out of me, but worrying won't do anything, I guess. Riding it out is the best method and having Grant here and having him remember will help that. Better than talking about feelings with Skinny, at least.

I round the corner for the clinic, holding up the plate of food on top of the pile of books. "Got a delivery for you," I say, one half of my mouth tipping up in a smile. "Hope you like jell-o."

Skinny!

Jan. 21st, 2009 09:52 pm
thewordofweb: (GIRL: lounge)
By the time I make it off the boat and breakfast has settled in my stomach, I feel as though my shoulders are inches lower than ever and that regular sex could be something akin to cocaine in terms of addictive drugs. In a pair of khaki shorts and a paisley button down tied to make sure it isn't too big, I find the swing on the gazebo with my charcoal pencil and begin to lose myself in the sketches I've been compiling since I arrived.

I feel almost as if I'm stuck like this, that three days going on possibly four is an omen that I might be stuck forever, but with the remnant of touches all over my body, I'm hard-pressed to care and so I sketch and write and bow my head to my shoulder as I do, lost in my own little world.
thewordofweb: (GIRL: lounge)
There's something strange about this out-of-body experience that only occurs to me now that I'm well-fed (and combatting a dizzying head rush from the heat). It makes me wonder if maybe I'm being put through this in order to understand the female perspective, because God knows I never did that when I was a teen like all the other boys did. Rites of passage, ones I missed out on.

For the walk to the Compound, I slid into a pair of baggy sweats and it's too much, but Joe's set to remedy that and I'm simply sitting on top of the washer with crossed-legs and waiting. My hair's a mess in a ponytail and I'm smoking a cigarette, thumb pressed to my chin and fingers in the air as it smokes carelessly towards the ceiling.

I've yet to ask aloud why Joe is doing this, mostly because I figure it's misplaced guilt after what happened last night, but at this point in the middle of the afternoon, I don't exactly care. "Make sure you find me something to swim in," I point out, "Abercrombie and Fitch, if you can."

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