Sometimes I wish I knew what true darkness was. Other times I could swear I see it in your eyes, in your shadow, in the empty beer bottle still hanging from your fingers. But right now all I see is your ceiling.
"Do ya think aliens are real?"
I turn my head toward you but you're still staring up. I trace your profile with my eyes and pretend, just like with every other time, that you don't notice. I blink and turn back to the ceiling. A shaft of blue light streaks across it.
"Yeah," I whisper, more or less. It is hard to tell.
"Same," you say, like a sigh. Your voice is always breathy but it's also low and I'm pretty sure I could fall asleep to it. "Like, everything's just so big. It can't just be us, right?"
You slur your r's. It's cute to me but I'm probably bias. If you were sober I'd tell you but you only accept compliments drunk—you also forget them. I will never tell you but that's because I'm selfish and cautious and way better at being sober than you are.
I think if I tell you, you wouldn't drink anymore. So I never will. I'm a horrible friend that way.
"There's no way we're alone." I can't tell if it's meant to be comforting. The light on the ceiling wavers.
It's from a streetlight but I kind of want it to be from the aliens that must be real. I think you'd enjoy being right and you'd smile and your eyes would crease and I'd turn to the aliens and say, "Look. Do you see? Humans can be beautiful too."
I'd like to imagine that these aliens would agree with me. They'd probably take you just for your smile. I wouldn't like it but I'd understand. I turn back towards you. The beer bottle is tucked between your legs and you're looking at me as I look at you as we lay on your bed. Your hair isn't in braids for once and I like it natural but you hate your hair no matter what I say so I just don't talk anymore. You wouldn't even notice or remember and you're too focused on my hair right now anyway.
"That's a nice thought," you say and I'm lost. All I can remember is the darkness and your eyes and your fingers in my hair.
I look at the ceiling and try to ignore your fingers. I fail.
"There should be nicer things in the world."
"Like more puppies?" You ask.
"More puppies would be great. Kittens too."
"Ma thinks I'm allergic to cats."
"Then little bunny rabbits."
"Oh." There's some silence. "I like bunnies."
I hum. You hum back. The light moves and time is still.
I blink and suddenly the light is out. I roll on my side and I don't know what to do with my hands. A piece of my hair is wrapped around your finger. It's dark on dark and then you grab one of my useless hands and it's brown on brown and I feel like crying.
Your breath is warm and I smell the alcohol but, for once, I don't mind.
"More love would be nice," you whisper and this time it truly is nothing but a hiss between teeth.
You roll over and we are nose to nose and I spy that true darkness in your eyes. I feel drunk as I lean forward and run my lips across your cheekbone. I'm pretty sure your highlighter is now on my mouth. By the way your eyes look at my lips, you don't seem to mind much.
"I think we could do with more love."
"Like this?" you ask.
"Yeah," I say. I drag you closer until all of our curves line up. "Like this."
You'll forget in the morning. You'll complain about the thumping behind your eyes and you'll swear you won't drink again. You'll smile when I'll bring you water. You'll laugh and joke as you wipe your old makeup off. You won't notice that my lipstick is already washed off, that red with gold that looks just like your highlighter.
You'll look me in the eyes, all that dark now gone, and ask if anything happened.
I will, of course, assure you that it was a boring night. And to you, it was.
I never talk about the light on your ceiling.
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