death cab for booty

"look at you. fucking look at you! i knew this would happen. i knew it! you and your fucking booze!"
"hey... this isn't my booze."
S L A P

all those things they say about redheads.
they're true.
batshit crazy.
to the eighth power.
spending a night with this woman wasn't dissimilar to moonwalking through a grassfire wearing dynamite sneakers with napalm soles.
but my god she looked good in a tight pair of jeans.
sure she'd mangle me and i'd curse her name for days, but it somehow seemed worth it during our all to brief episodes of peace.
like when i'd watch her beautiful, drunken body, sprawled across her bed on top of the sheets.
asleep or just unconscious.
her porcelain skin infused with the stray moonlight seeping in through her front window.
watching her as i quietly dressed myself, her chest rising and deflating with each tiny breath.
i'd always look back and smile before slipping out the door.
taking her in one last time, pausing for a moment.
just long enough to grab a fistfull of dollars from the change dish on her dresser.
the bus ain't free sister.