Fake Blood and Happy Endings

 

I always thought that taking time to think over certain decisions was actually pretty pointless. 

Your mind is already made up anyway; whatever amount of time you give yourself to weigh all the options and outcomes will invariably be spent angsting and doubting and second-guessing and next thing you know there was really no 'thinking' done about the issue at hand - just a great deal of guilt-tripping for not really wanting to give the alternatives you're not choosing a serious try.

So when he mentioned moving into my apartment for the first time, I took a shortcut.

"No." 

Mind you, I didn't do things halfway. I also broke up with him. He was sort of alright with it. Not 'hip hip hurray', but he's doing okay I think. None of his friends have called to beg me to take him back, so I'm guessing he's not suicidal or anything.

I could've kept loneliness at bay a little longer I suppose.

If I had done the supposedly 'wise thing' and asked for that infamous 'time to think about it', we might've spent more evenings cuddling with a blanket, a stovetop popcorn and Pixar movies. We've had some good times; we liked the same things, he was interesting, he gave (really) good head. Right now I'm looking at his toothbrush and I feel like there's more of me than him on it. I figure he won't mind if I throw it away; I'm holding on to his travel size sensitive teeth toothpaste, just in case he wants it back.

At the moment I am sitting at an unknown bar drinking beer from the can. I ordered whatever was tonight's special; it's the crappy kind they sell ironically. Looking around me I came to the conclusion that it really is the crowd that makes this place 'hipster'. The bare brick walls, the wrecked brown red sofa and the multi-generational lampshapdes give no indication that this is in fact one of the trendiest bars in this part of town. Or that it is geared towards queer and queer-friendly crowds.

This is stupid. If no one walked up to me in the space of an hour then no one ever will. I see a bunch of college students telling stories around a shisha, sprawled and shoe-less on an orgy of lush embroidered cushions. I don't belong here. Maybe tonight's a special night but I feel older than anyone else here. Not that I am; I guess being on the labor market and everything makes you age, whether you like it or not.

I don't know why I keep doing this to myself. I glance at my feet. My tote bag is telling me to not to abandon her here. Don't worry. I'll never let you fall in the hansd of a Mac person.

"Hey."

This is awkward; I'm hanging on to my bag's shoulder strag like I'm ready to run away. To win time I just stare into the, erm, the piercing between the girl's eyes, trying to come up with something grammatical.

"Uh... hey."

Not bad, I guess. I've never seen such luscious lips. They're like an art object in themselves.

"You smoke?"

"Smoke?"

She hands me a cigarette and I'm almost tempted to accept because those eyes, damn-

"Erm, no, actually."

"Do you mind if I do?"

"I... I guess you can?"

She laughs and I follow her laugh to the patio with the other smelly smokers because I want to hear more of it. I feel stupid, staring at my feet, all to aware that to an artsy chick who wears three layers of granny skirts and pull it off nothing that can come out of my mouth will ever sound interesting.

I find myself enjoying the scent of her new cigarette being lit up. Those first whisks always smell good for some reason. But as soon as the grey stuff comes out of her nose, the spell wears off.

"So what's your name," I risk, not daring to dignify my lame line with a question mark.

"Cass."

"Cass."

"Is that your name, too?" She mocks me between two mini cancer-shots.

"No, it's... My name's Eddie."

It's Edna but if you tell anyone I'll break your neck. My middle name's no better - Henrietta - so I can't go by it, either.

"You're so tall. That figures. Did you come here... alone... or...?" She gives me a look over like it was yes, a very great thing that I was tall, and that my being alone here would be a bonus.

"Er..." I swear I tried to keep that one in. I can't help but lose a few brain cells when I'm nervous. And her creamy cleavage is making me nervous. I've never touched anything but hairy chests and penises but dang I've always had a thing - visually - for voluptuous female breasts.

She's not replying to me with words but with a look - I can't see very well from the light but her eye color must be very pale, blue or something. And mocking. She knows why I'm here and she knows I know it but she's having fun with it. Ah, woe me.

"Well I guess I'm with you right now," I say just to give her something to play with. She seems highly amused. 

"You're kind of forhtcoming for someone who was setting to leave."

Well.

"I was forthcoming about leaving until you showed up." Don't ask me how that makes sense. It probably doesn't. I'm not letting her the time to point out my nonsense. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Oh.

She raises her eyebrows.

Oh my.

I don't know what I'm doing.

Oh my oh my.

She smiles; maybe she doesn't know I don't know what I'm doing. Maybe she's thinking, 'well I had misjudged this askward five foot nine oblivious elephant in the porcelain hipster bar.

"Sure." She's doing this thing where she's winking with both her eyes open. Mind you, they're sort of moon crescent shaped, with the pointy ends down, and I find her pretty. "Come on. Eddie." She says my name like she owns it, the vowel lingering on like a lash at my neck, and I dutifully follow her back into the bar that plays music so indie the band can't afford proper instruments - I mean why else would they resort to clapping their hands?

.

Author's Notes

Hello all! Milly here, this is my first original fic and my first full on femslash! The first chapter is a little shorter than the next ones, but at any rate do tell me what you think and don't be shy on the concrit! Tata!

-Milly