temporal ii

The door is still open and the light that washes the room hurts my eyes.  I can see the sign on the door.  The letters are backwards. Try to read it. 

“No beer pong, for you?” she asks.

She wants to know why I stayed with her. She’s looking for validation.  Connection.  Camaraderie.

“I don't need games to get me drunk,” I tell her.  “I can do that just fine by myself.”

“But you're not,” She corrects.

“Drunk?”

“Alone. By yourself.” Zoë says, “You aren't drunk either.”

“People like me don't get drunk,” I say.

A parody of a parody.

“Who are these 'people like you?’”

She puts up her solo cup, a red one, and slowly sips. Her eyes close when she drinks.

I tell her, “Monsters.”

“Monsters?”

“Yeah, crème de la crème.”

“And you,” she continues. “Intrigued.”

“Me, what?”

“Are you a monster, too, like them?”

“The mother of all monsters.” I mean it. I don’t. Whatever.

“Spooky,” Zoë says and this whole time, she moves closer to me, practically crawling across the small stretch of floor between us.

Her smile is the sinister one.

She’s in front of me, seated.  Crossed legs mirror crossed legs. Knees touch knees, her bare skin against my jeans.  She's serious now. She pushes hair out of her face.

“You hear about the professor here that raped his student?”

I counter.

“You hear about the professor who had the nervous breakdown in the middle of class.”

They sound like setups without punch lines.

“I was in that class.”

“So was I.”

Outside the room, I hear the celebration of a victory as a new team gets ready for their round.

Someone says, it’s a guy[‘]s voice, “Chug that shit.”

There’s words of encouragement go unanswered.

Applause.

I hear a girl giggle.

“I should be studying,” I tell her.

“Anatomy?” She flirts[.]

And I've never seen someone try so hard for something without pulling the trigger.

I think of Kathy, hung over, taking the test I’m going to sleep through tomorrow morning. Reed’s exam.  

The questions: Name three examples of propaganda in post-millennial society which seek to shape cultural consciousness in favor of the establishment; What are Erik Erikson’s eight stages of development and which stage are you at and why; If you think it or feel it, why is it important; And of course, what is the point of the Matrix, but just the first one?

The lies I'll undoubtedly end up telling. I’ll have to kill my mother off, soon.  The choices I make every single instant that go unnoticed.  How I very frequently miss the point, the significance, of the surroundings.

“You want to play?” Zoë asks and motions with her head to the game out there.

“Not really.”  A sigh. “It depends on the game.”

“Come be on my team.”  She kisses me quick and shy as she stands up.

I'm semi-hard.  Stoned and drunk and stupid. Young, stupid.  My heart’s quick.  I feel it, in my body. The heartbeat is my body.

Zoë only does this to get what she wants from me. Probably.

The computer screen wakes up as she brushes by it. The desktop background is an image of the word, because.

I don't know what she wants. But I could guess.

Turns out Zoë’s roommate really is in the other bedroom studying for Reed’s test with three guys from the varsity lacrosse team.

Some nights, I impress myself with how good I am.

God I am.

There should be awards for this.