Procrastination

We got together, almost against my will, on the hood of his truck in the parking lot of Tall Roaches. I told him no, but didn't totally mean it, and then we lay together in the moonlight, in the headlights, as the rats and short-short girls and broken bottles watched us. I didn't want him, not even just a little, but I wanted him to want me. I wanted him to want me because Devin didn't love me, because I had poison ivy, because I was drunk on Mickey's Big Mouths and couldn't go home. High school was over, it was nearly the end of summer, and the next morning, just like every other morning, I'd have to tag shirts at my dry cleaning job. My fingers would smell like cardboard and Pre Spot, and then I'd come home, eat Bremner Wafers, and sleep. But here he was now, his mouth warm and malty, so yeah, then, all right. It didn't matter about his bucked teeth or his girlfriend. It didn't matter about the mosquitoes or the short-short girls or the nightwatchman or the rain. In a little while, he would drive me home, and everything would be okay. But first, the smell of onion rings and sandalwood on his T-Shirt. The muffled tink-tink of his engine beneath our backs.