[03] iv; or "a mark, a mission, a draft, a scar"

we're sitting in collapsible chairs beside a fire we didn't build. everyone else is either asleep or just not around. you're passed out in the tent because of course you are. i'm angry at you for not being able drink the way i can -- i feel superior to you in that way; in a lot of ways. i check my phone for texts but B hasn't sent any. i must not have service here. she asks if i want to have an affair with him -- if i'm actually going to do it or if i'm just flirting and that's all. i tell her i don't know, and that's not a lie. i don't know. i don't really know anything now, about myself, because this entire exchange is so unlike me that i think i must never have known me. i'm scared of myself,  too scared to even tell anyone that i'm scared. i feel nervous; the feeling of not doing something, as opposed to anticipating it or dreading it. an uncomfortable silence with words. -=-

the four of us share a tent. they have a cot and an inflatable mattress; we have sleeping bags. it's a sizable tent. it's theirs. i feel weird being in the same space with them like this. T makes me uncomfortable in a general way anyway, so i assume this feeling is that, but it doesn't matter because i've had so much to drink that i fall asleep without deciding to.


we're the only ones still in the tent when i wake up — the only ones still asleep period. this is embarrassing. sleeping late makes me feel like a child, lazy. M is grinning from a picnic table when i crawl out the flap. T is talking in a voice loud enough to reach the main road. some time between salmon-colored flowers and this moment, she's moved on. yesterday is behind her, along with its curt replies and rolled eyes and the gazpacho. i hold onto my resentment tighter now, before i've even stood all the way up, like letting go would invalidate the work i'd put into crafting it the day before/for the past 4 years. i hope you don't wake up until i've found the coffee.

her hair is like another person. today it's two braids. i ask if she's showered. "[T's parents] won't let us use their shower, no." i think this is ridiculous and selfish and unnecessary, and suddenly i understand so much more about him.


i'm annoyed with her. it's more fun when we're co-conspirators, when no one can get into the club because it's a closed-door policy. we have a closed-door policy with everyone all the time. it's one of my favorite things about us. but then she climbs down and sits beside him again and i cross my arms over my chest and get back to practicing my dramatic breathing and short answers.


MORE [03] pt 1 [03] pt 2 [03] pt 3