The Modern Day James Dean

This man feels like sipping on blueberry vodkas at a baseball game while I attempt to flirt with a stranger to forget the saved text messages sitting in my back pocket. My appetite is still gone, and at this point alcohol slithers down my throat, and the courage that I once had is coming back…I try to forget that in the morning, it will be gone again. Right now, I am fixated on the way his lips emphasize words that I know are just drunken love bombing, but I think to myself, “Why not pretend to be a fool just for tonight?”. I choose to follow his dirty pair of air force ones into the night while blocking out the fact that he is not my type, but the way he brushes his hand through his hair reminds me of trouble I once knew – I once devoured. I slur out sarcastic remarks to him in my pink tennis skirt on a hot summer day, and let his experienced hands slightly grip onto my arm – I feel a promiscuous wanting from him in between orders of free margaritas and beers. The giggling he provokes, consumes me and his old t-shirt suddenly smells like old spice and trouble that I cannot handle. I knew it the moment his light brown eyes looked into mine, confessing, half drunk, “Shit, I really like you”. That is when I realized that the me he liked was temporarily out of order, and I only caught fleeting glimpses of her after forcing myself to swallow shots of fireball. The “you” he spoke of was temporary, chaotic and probably not even real. I knew his scattered face freckles would no longer entertain me during our silent conversations, one day after my buzz left. My personal version of a modern day James Dean.