what have i done

As much as I fucking hated working there, it was nights like that that almost made those past three years worth it.

It was times like that that I didn't even care too much that he didn't really remember me, or at least who I really was. I was Violet, the waitress, and no one more. But times like that that's all he needed. That's all I needed to be. The hazy smoke, and the creeping relaxation that had washed over the both of us had taken the edge off the ache it had left in my chest.

It was still there, though. A little too much for my liking. I brought it back up to my lips, taking a nice, long drag. It felt good, and the smoke helped to burn away that pain. What did it matter if he didn't remember the real me? My own memory was starting to get foggy.

I breathed out, and pouring out with the smoke went the stresses of the day. Faces of asshole patrons and vapid coworkers faded from my head, curling into the air and dissipating into nothing. It was a sigh of relief. I could finally focus on the important things.

Sometimes I wonder if the stuff helped him gain some perspective on his own life, and that's the real reason he did it. The other band members introduced him to it, but he'd never joined them since. Like most things in his life he did it alone... until he'd started inviting me. Maybe it awoke some flicker of a memory somewhere in that fuzzy head of his. Maybe it was because for a second, even just a second he'd look at me and remember who we were. But maybe he didn't have to remember a damn thing.

Sitting there, half-naked, saying stupid, inane shit and giggling over it, things were more real than they had been in years.

He knew it. I knew it. In this room we were more than set dressing for the Pigmasks. The drug had made all that stuff, normally buried under the weight of day to day life so clear. Life in the club was just so damn fake. It had the illusion of being a wild, fun place to be but right under the surface everything was so sterile, so engineered. The whole fucking world was becoming that way and so many people were buying into it.

Not us. That's why we were together. Why we still are, even after he got his memories back. We don't have to impress. Put on pretty faces and sanitize ourselves to be accepted. We're fucked up and we know it. But who cares if a tomboy and a guy with a gimpy leg isn't exactly the usual story? When we were there like that he looked at me and I saw what I never saw from any patron. There was this smile on his face, such an awkward and sweet thing to see. There was a simple joy in those red eyes. He was comfortable. He was happy. And so was I.

What was still real was that connection we had. At this point it might as well have been the only real thing left in the goddamn world.

As always, we shared more than just our thoughts with each other. Doing it high, it's a little different. It's not a race towards some kind of hot, fevered end. It's slow and gentle, each push a mellow heartbeat, pulsing a pleasure through our veins just as vital as blood. You notice a lot more. Every little brush of fingertips, every bit of touching skin, nothing is missed, and it all comes together into something that's almost too much. And the end... it feels like it lasts forever, a beautiful burst of flickering colour and rushing pleasure unlike anything else.

It's raw human feeling. Not graceful, not some kind of perfect, manufactured image of what sex should be, but /real/.

Afterwards, we were always a tangled mess of limbs, losing consciousness at the most awkward angles possible. But I didn't care. Those were some of the best damn nights of my life.