She likes that she fits in that crook of that shoulder. That she can shoot darting looks of contempt, all 5'3 of her, and feel safe. The circles will trace faster well jaws get clenched and chins raised. She likes wearing leather boots and bandanna cuffs and feeling bad-ass. And she likes that if she could choose to wear heels and a summer dress it would still look good with his jeans and black t-shirt.
She likes that he's in control. At least right here, right now. And that she could turn it around by sliding her own hand down his back.
They are like this. Her hands pushed deep in her pockets. Nonchalant and brooding. Comfortable. Everyone knows them. Not by name, just by the toques and bored glares.
You know they're not going anywhere. The best part is that they don't care. And, if they don't care you've got nothing on them. They can own it, here. Get off their main street. Leave their concrete bench alone. You don't want to sit there among broken glass anyway.
She doesn't remember when he first put his arm around her. She knows it was somewhere back in grade nine. Probably around the time she first started getting stoned on lunch break. Back then when she wore her Silver jeans every single day. Leaning against the chain link fence at the back of the school.
What she will always remember is sitting in the back of employment workshops, his arm around her. She'll remember wanting to practice an interview, but making snarky comments instead. It's the way they are. Learned complacency.
She likes it this way too much. Needing it. Suddenly realizing he also needs her. She starts tracing circles on her arm.
An American Dropout inspired me to try my hand at a little more fiction. It's always been my favourite to write, so don't be surprised if you see more. I'll be sure to always label it as such. Thoughts?