September 15, 2002
Previously in the World of Jill
"I'm glad I'm a girl... not all destructive and weird."
"I'm glad I'm a guy... fucking blowin' shit up."
Mike and I are laying in the cab of his truck at three-thirty in the morning, we are listening to Incubus' 'Aqueous Transmission' on repeat. His fingers tap against my arm in time with the sitar strings.
That was Friday.
Last night I ducked out of work about a half-hour early, as we had plans to go downtown to the Shadowbox Cabaret. I changed quickly into a Bridget Jones-esque barely-there skirt, tights, and gypsy earrings. I feel both paranoid and delicious when clad such.
We don't make it to the Shadowbox, they're all booked up. Instead we venture to the Yucatan, one of the few clubs that will allow wee, childish me within. Fucking nineteen year's old. We are in the company of the new roommate Tobias, a kind but seemingly untrustworthy chap, and his extremely silly but equally as nice girlfriend.
So. The Yucatan. My first club experience.
Perception Number One: The caliber of girls here, was, to say the least, very very low. Too much grindage. Too many asses. It was beyond all other expressions totally disgusting. It would have been bad had they been dancing skankily with their prospective males. But they weren't. They were dancing with eachother.
Perception Number Two: Mike is adorable. O, wait. That's an everyday thing.
Perception Number Three: I don't have to swill alcohol to let loose. I laugh hysterically, of course, at the sheer audacity of my being on a dance floor, in a short skirt, my hips sliding with the rhythm. Eventually, however, I just try to pretend like I don't suck, and find, miraculously, that this is true. The dance floor was extremely cramped, but Mike and I had a blast anyway. Mike is pretty good.
He told me I was, too.
Hoorah!
I had the best time, despite the fact that on our ride home we had to sit four in the backseat, leaving me in Mike's lap. It didn't help, either, that the drunk girl in the back seat insisted on dancing, without music, and that her boyfriend commanded us to stop so he could throw up.
I so avoid those kinds of people in real life. But last night didn't seem real, so I suppose it was alright.
Back at Mike's house, we lay in his bed as close to eachother as we can, and I keep whispering over and over how much I wish I could stay. I want it so badly, I want him so badly.
"We never get enough time." He whispers, kissing my hair.
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know!
He's so beautiful. I wish for so many things for him, for myself, for the pair of us. Sadness creeps into the hollow places of my person, I fight it and I fight it and I curl more tightly into the warmth his body provides.
I've never been in love like this before.
astera at 1:05 p.m.