Obessed With Fire
February 24, 2011 § Leave a comment
He sends me a message on Facebook that’s all about how I used to be an office aide and I smiled at him in art class and we went to the fucking bowling alley. All I can think is that I bet he’s fat and smells like a weinie wagon nowadays. If I’m wrong about the smell, I’ll bet I’ve never been right about anything in my life.
He hasn’t included a picture, but the message is the long sort and a glance at his profile shows that he never uses pictures. He lives in Terre Haute, too. I remember going there to race go-carts, riding in a big van with the other troubled youth, feeling the hot hands of the newest boy slipping under the rim of my shorts.
None of us girls ever got along unless it was long enough to call “Slut” on another one of the sluts we knew. Thinking back, I bet we could have unionized that underage pussy and been playground powerhouses. Instead we glared each other down and stole each other’s boyfriends.
I remember being an office aide, too. It was first period and I had to walk the entire school, grabbing attendance sheets and looking boys in the eye long enough to make their dicks hard before looking back down at my shoes. One boy would get angry over this and I always had a feeling he’d be the sort to push me down in the dirt at a county fair, getting corn dog mustard on my knees.
But this kid, I don’t remember him at all. I ask him for a picture, and he sends one; sends his senior picture from that year. There’s nothing in his face that brings anything back for me, and I read about the date to the bowling alley. “You kept playing with my lighter, like you were obsessed with fire or something”, he writes. “You sure did have the brightest smile.”
I kick this around a bit and decide against accepting his friendship request. I delete his messages and go on with my day. Later on I’ll try to remember the name of that other boy- the scary one who’d mouth nasty things to me that made me want to cry. Later on I’ll look that guy up and see what he’s been up to the last 17 years. If he’s not in prison, I’ll be a bit let down.