You Can Call That Love

#Childhood

Tue, May 4th, 2010 15:33 by David Dylan ARTICLE

Lyrics quoted: Family ? Sullivan/Heaton (New Model Army).



"Joey puts her make-up on really well ..."

She looks in the mirror. The mirror is cracked. She straightens her hair and puts the finishing touches on her dark makeup. Her seams are straight. Her chest ever so slightly padded. Where was that pub again? She looks it up on the Internet, cursing her slow laptop under her breath.

She looks in the mirror again. Black. A lot of black. Dark eye shadow. Her nose is too big.

She leaves the house.

"... She looks cool in the flashing lights ..."

Talk about tattoos. Talk about music. Talk about whatever. She feels out of place. She feels intimidated. It?s not her, she tells herself. She is cool. It?s them. The old guys staring at her. The normal people. The conformists. The ever so non-conformist conformists, all looking the same.

She likes a guy. Not likes-likes, just likes enough to flirt, maybe wind him up a bit. He?s old though. But hey, the rest of them are either kids, kids her own age but kids all the same, or even older.

He certainly seems to like her. She fools around with a girl, why not. It's fun. It gets the stares. Her seams are still straight.

Black clothes. Sexy, black, dark, like she wants to be.

"... And all the boys gossip about the shape of her legs ..."

She is the centre of attention. Why not, she ought to be. She is cool. For a fleeting moment, she is cool.

Steal a drag from a cigarette. Just barely old enough to buy her own. Talk about piercings, scarification. All things that are cool. Scare the straights. Scare them the way they scare her all day long, but not now. Here, now, she is cool. She is cool.

'I'm cool' she tells herself. Maybe she'll believe it later.

"...On these muddled up and drunken nights ..."

Se can't dance. He doesn't care. Her nose is still too big. Nothing about her is quite right. He doesn't like her. How could he? But hey, he's there.

Everybody is having fun. She must be having fun, she thinks. What else could it be?

Let him buy another drink.

"... And if it's all got to end up between the sheets ..."

He does like her. He sure seems in a hurry. Her mascara is running. Stare at the spot where her first tattoo will be. Ceiling, wall, moan, ceiling, wall. Oral.

"... She can coo like a virgin dove ..."

He's not that bad. Old. Attractive, in a way. The way all things are 'in a way' these days. Tomorrow? Tomorrow is just another today. Yesterday? Lost in the grey fog.

Stare at the razor on the bed stand. It gleams at her. Invitingly, longingly. Oral, again. Wait... where is he, ah right. Relax, it won't hurt if she relaxes.

"...But really she just doesn't want to be alone ..."

He snores. Kick him out tomorrow. He's got to know who is boss. Don't get attached. If he loves her, play him. She smiles. He seems happy. He kissed her. They cuddled. She stroked his back. Told him it was great. He said he'd never had better.

Well, she thinks? I try. I mean...

"... And if you want you can call that love ..."

Daddy always liked it.

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