I relax on the cheap old futon, its bars poking painfully into my butt. Gulping down most of my bitch beer in one shot, I slam the empty bottle on the floor, grinning. The others in the room nod at my accomplishment. There is a constant hum of conversation in the air. Even though it is a cold March night, the sliding door is open to let out the heat from all the bodies crammed into the basement apartment.
Next to me, there is a sizzle as the blunt is lit. The air fills with with the heavy, thick smoke of weed and a vanilla dutch. I twist open another bitch beer, ripping some skin off my thumb in the process. Shrugging it off, I chug half the drink, the carbonation making me gag. I have to swallow hard a few times so it doesn't come right back up. I know I would never live that down.
The blunt makes its way to my hand. Puff, puff, pass. I inhale deeply, the smoke penetrating my lungs. My eyes water; all attempts not to cough are in vain. Laughter fills the room as I'm reassured coughing makes you higher.
I get off the futon and walk to the door. I rush outside, slipping on the ice. My arms flail as I try to regain my balance. I fall hard, jamming my hand and wrenching my back. I know that when I'm sober again, it is going to hurt. I am helped up by someone I've never seen. He is with the birthday boy, the reason for tonight's party.
I look him over, head to toe. He is wearing a too-big black hoodie with large yellow letters spelling ARMY across the front. An Army keychain hangs out of his pocket. His dark wash jeans are a little too long, the hems faded to white and torn. His sneakers are generic, black, and beat up. We talk about how he's going to join the Army in the summer, since he just turned 18. I'm no longer interested (since I'm 23) until he mentions the bottle of Johnny Walker in his trunk. After he retrieves it, we sit on the futon to talk.
His hands wander to my leg. I want to move it, but end up letting it be. He is not my type. He is too young, his nose is to big, his crewcut is too short. I make it clear that I do not want a relationship. He is still pushing his luck, and I feel a little bad for him. He boasts about how good he is in bed. I laugh.
We head to the only secluded place left in the house; the laundry room. The floor is damp. It is cramped. He pulls an old blanket from dryer and covers the cement to make a "bed". I tell him I will never even see him again after tonight.
This post was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.
For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.
If you didn't guess, the boy I was never going to see again is my boyfriend and the father of our kids. The post is about the night we met. And he never ended up joining the army-less than 2 months later, I was pregnant with T.