saturday shorts
its about the yearning
I’m standing out on the deck of a house party. The noise of people is fuzzy behind me, trapped behind windows and doors, only let through from cracks in the foundation. I have a drink in my hand and I sip from it only because it’s there, mechanical. My mouth is sticky and dry, and I try to wash away the feeling but every sip just makes it worse.
Tilting my head back, I look up at the summer night sky, satellites and stars at a distance that I wish I could be. There’s a few other people out here with me, lounging around on deck chairs and talking quietly, revelling in an escape from the stuffy air of drunk teens inside.
A rise in noise as someone opens the door and steps out, laughing, onto the deck, uneven footsteps tottering across the floor. They stop beside me and I turn. I don't know him, but we’ve shared classes. I rack my brain to remember what but I can’t remember, too tired and fuzzed out already.
“So this party huh.” He leans heavily on the railing, and I watch his drink crawl dangerously close to the edge of his glass before retreating back into the mass of liquid at the bottom of the glass. The light of the party filters through the amber liquid, and I tap my fingers on the metal can of my drink.
“Yeah.” I don’t really feel like talking. But I’m not an asshole.
“The music is so bad bro, I just had to get out of there.” He scoffs, and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, and leans into me as if he’s sharing a secret, “I think they’re just using one of those spotify party playlists.”
I laugh, surprised. It was shitty music, the kind that’s in indie coming-of-age films where the protagonist is becoming who they are, driving a car along a winding road with their closest friends, having a party where everyone knows each other and has coordinated teen dance moves.
I can still hear it through the door, the muffled voice of a white boy singing about how sad he is. Revolutionary.
“And this party is just so dead, like, I’ve never been to a party that’s so dead, nobody’s even puked yet.” He’s gesturing with his hands and my eyes keep tracking his drink as I sip, nod, and hum in agreement.
This is the first party I’ve been out to in a while, but it’s a well deserved post-exams party. After months of studying and locking myself in my room with only physics theories to keep me company, I was going insane without socialising.
“Oh yeah, I mean what’s a house party without an ambulance and stomach pumping huh? Takes all the excitement out of it.” I say, jerking my head towards the majority of the party goers. “But I mean, drinking to the point of danger before you’ve even finished high school? Who would do that.”
It’s not that funny, but he laughs like the audience in a netflix comedians stand up act, and grins. Of course he has dimples.
“Oh yeah, nothing makes my parents happier than being hungover at breakfast. A special, now coming up with disappointment and comparison to more succesful siblings.” He delivers this like the narrator of an infomercial.
“Who doesn’t want to be a 17 year old alcoholic?” I exaggerate widening my eyes and looking shocked.
We laugh. There’s a beat of silence.
“We were, uh, in drama class together last year, I’m not sure if you-” He’s hesitant for the first time since we started talking and I’m quick to interrupt with faux confidence undermined by my neck flushing.
“Yeah! Yeah dramalast year, of course I remember, yeah.”
Fuck.
I don’t remember that. And from the look on his face he knows it too. I’ve never been a good liar. I don’t seem to have that miraculous ability that some people do of thinking on their feet.
My ears are hot and I take a gulp of my drink, awkwardly lukewarm now and I look back out onto the lawn, staring fixedly at each and every strand of grass. It’s hard to do in the darkness, where the outline of everything is unclear, but at least it gives me something to look at other than him.
“Well yeah I just uh, thought that you were pretty-” A pause, and I am definitely not looking at him now, “-cool. Last year. Pretty cool playing that...old guy”
We both take a long gulp from our glasses, and then lower them at the same time, and they clunk down onto the railing.
I start to laugh.
“Are you-?” an incredulous shake of my head, “are you flirting with me? Are you even gay?” I didn’t think he was. I’d sort of classified him into that kind of pre-frat boy when we started talking. That wasn’t to say that frat boys couldn’t be gay, but when you’re a teen you’re kind of trying to broadcast your classified identity as loudly as possible. So if I exuded gay drama kid energy, then that was hardly my fault.
Now he’s the one that’s bright red, flushed from his neck to his scalp. “I mean- Like- Well, I’m, I’m kind of bi.”
“Kind of?” An arched brow over another sip of my drink, carefully practised in front of a mirror and finally executed in real life.
“Well I dunno, I mean like, people can be like, hot. And stuff.” He shoved both hands into his hair, like having his hands do something was a viable defence mechanism. It was kind of cute, I guess. It made his hair spike under his fingers, and I thought of a video of hedgehogs raising their spikes.
“And you think...I’m a hot person?” Now this was interesting. And fun. Way more fun than I anticipated when I entered the party to a mass of drunk, horny teens anyway.
He flushed brighter but coughed, straightening his shoulders and extracting his hands from his hair. “Yeah. Um. Yeah!
“So?” I push forward the question tentatively.
“So…” He echoes, blustering confidence from a few sentences ago evaporated in the night air. I think about how many boys’ confident advances must just float into the atmosphere, a concentrated mass of rejection.
I consider this moment. There are two ways that this could go. Either we start a whirlwind affair that lasts for maybe a month before being thrown into the cesspool of failed highschool relationship. Or…
I fish my phone out of my pocket, and hold it out to him. It rests between us, a string of potential, an olive branch, a patch of fertile soil. “Here. Put your number in, and shoot me a text.”
See you tomorrow.
Tilting my head back, I look up at the summer night sky, satellites and stars at a distance that I wish I could be. There’s a few other people out here with me, lounging around on deck chairs and talking quietly, revelling in an escape from the stuffy air of drunk teens inside.
A rise in noise as someone opens the door and steps out, laughing, onto the deck, uneven footsteps tottering across the floor. They stop beside me and I turn. I don't know him, but we’ve shared classes. I rack my brain to remember what but I can’t remember, too tired and fuzzed out already.
“So this party huh.” He leans heavily on the railing, and I watch his drink crawl dangerously close to the edge of his glass before retreating back into the mass of liquid at the bottom of the glass. The light of the party filters through the amber liquid, and I tap my fingers on the metal can of my drink.
“Yeah.” I don’t really feel like talking. But I’m not an asshole.
“The music is so bad bro, I just had to get out of there.” He scoffs, and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, and leans into me as if he’s sharing a secret, “I think they’re just using one of those spotify party playlists.”
I laugh, surprised. It was shitty music, the kind that’s in indie coming-of-age films where the protagonist is becoming who they are, driving a car along a winding road with their closest friends, having a party where everyone knows each other and has coordinated teen dance moves.
I can still hear it through the door, the muffled voice of a white boy singing about how sad he is. Revolutionary.
“And this party is just so dead, like, I’ve never been to a party that’s so dead, nobody’s even puked yet.” He’s gesturing with his hands and my eyes keep tracking his drink as I sip, nod, and hum in agreement.
This is the first party I’ve been out to in a while, but it’s a well deserved post-exams party. After months of studying and locking myself in my room with only physics theories to keep me company, I was going insane without socialising.
“Oh yeah, I mean what’s a house party without an ambulance and stomach pumping huh? Takes all the excitement out of it.” I say, jerking my head towards the majority of the party goers. “But I mean, drinking to the point of danger before you’ve even finished high school? Who would do that.”
It’s not that funny, but he laughs like the audience in a netflix comedians stand up act, and grins. Of course he has dimples.
“Oh yeah, nothing makes my parents happier than being hungover at breakfast. A special, now coming up with disappointment and comparison to more succesful siblings.” He delivers this like the narrator of an infomercial.
“Who doesn’t want to be a 17 year old alcoholic?” I exaggerate widening my eyes and looking shocked.
We laugh. There’s a beat of silence.
“We were, uh, in drama class together last year, I’m not sure if you-” He’s hesitant for the first time since we started talking and I’m quick to interrupt with faux confidence undermined by my neck flushing.
“Yeah! Yeah dramalast year, of course I remember, yeah.”
Fuck.
I don’t remember that. And from the look on his face he knows it too. I’ve never been a good liar. I don’t seem to have that miraculous ability that some people do of thinking on their feet.
My ears are hot and I take a gulp of my drink, awkwardly lukewarm now and I look back out onto the lawn, staring fixedly at each and every strand of grass. It’s hard to do in the darkness, where the outline of everything is unclear, but at least it gives me something to look at other than him.
“Well yeah I just uh, thought that you were pretty-” A pause, and I am definitely not looking at him now, “-cool. Last year. Pretty cool playing that...old guy”
We both take a long gulp from our glasses, and then lower them at the same time, and they clunk down onto the railing.
I start to laugh.
“Are you-?” an incredulous shake of my head, “are you flirting with me? Are you even gay?” I didn’t think he was. I’d sort of classified him into that kind of pre-frat boy when we started talking. That wasn’t to say that frat boys couldn’t be gay, but when you’re a teen you’re kind of trying to broadcast your classified identity as loudly as possible. So if I exuded gay drama kid energy, then that was hardly my fault.
Now he’s the one that’s bright red, flushed from his neck to his scalp. “I mean- Like- Well, I’m, I’m kind of bi.”
“Kind of?” An arched brow over another sip of my drink, carefully practised in front of a mirror and finally executed in real life.
“Well I dunno, I mean like, people can be like, hot. And stuff.” He shoved both hands into his hair, like having his hands do something was a viable defence mechanism. It was kind of cute, I guess. It made his hair spike under his fingers, and I thought of a video of hedgehogs raising their spikes.
“And you think...I’m a hot person?” Now this was interesting. And fun. Way more fun than I anticipated when I entered the party to a mass of drunk, horny teens anyway.
He flushed brighter but coughed, straightening his shoulders and extracting his hands from his hair. “Yeah. Um. Yeah!
“So?” I push forward the question tentatively.
“So…” He echoes, blustering confidence from a few sentences ago evaporated in the night air. I think about how many boys’ confident advances must just float into the atmosphere, a concentrated mass of rejection.
I consider this moment. There are two ways that this could go. Either we start a whirlwind affair that lasts for maybe a month before being thrown into the cesspool of failed highschool relationship. Or…
I fish my phone out of my pocket, and hold it out to him. It rests between us, a string of potential, an olive branch, a patch of fertile soil. “Here. Put your number in, and shoot me a text.”
See you tomorrow.