‘You move like a dancer’ he says. And I’m adrift, afloat; my mind is reeling upside down in the student center on a sofa listening to the diet coke sizzle. There’s a straw inside the coke, the bendy kind. There is a small pack of 50 in my bag because I like the way my cheekbones filter out when I drink with them. I’m prone to classy acts like that; little trends in frequency of relative bullshit which means nothing to have, to do.
Upside down, my hair moves against my arms and it itches. I want to scratch but yield in movement, not wanting to give him an excuse to talk again.
It’s easier to feel that I’m breathing in this position, skin taunt over my ribs. It feels as if it could rip if I press more, build more pressure from within my chest, but it doesn’t so I won’t. I’ve tried before, this sitting upside down.
‘You make me sound like a goddamned cliché.’ And he does, but he recoils, confused, thinking flattery would be a strategic way to enter my sordid self of conscious, but it’s not, so I rebuff like this. More pissed off than before. ‘You’re not a cliché.’ he thrusts back. Flips idly though his philosophy book, notebook ridding his high crossed leg and now my eyes are watering. The coke snaps in life on the table, little ricochets of violence against the coloured tin and I look at the straw. I tell him he doesn’t know everything.
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