#smiles mischievously

- Kip Chipperman

Insert me transferring my constant back pain into Lightning's knees

the lamb and the flag had the feel of a place slightly out of time — dim amber light, the clink of glass against glass, the low murmur of voices like a memory she couldn’t place. it was late enough that only the regulars remained, scattered and quiet, folded into themselves, the way places get when the air goes heavy with last call and regret. maeve didn’t belong here, not really, but she’d sunk into the corner booth like it had been waiting for her. her hair was undone in that artful way that suggested it had once been sleek and purposeful. now it was just soft and slightly disheveled, like the rest of her. she hadn’t meant to end up here. she’d only meant to go for a walk. she’d only meant one drink. she wasn’t drunk, not really. just soft around the edges. just loose enough to stop performing. her phone buzzed once against the table, bright with the ghost of a sent message. she didn’t need to look to remember it. it had been stupid, impulsive, typed out with clumsy fingers and a kind of quiet urgency that didn’t suit her. “ are you awake? i'm out and they’re playing that song from the gala. the one we danced to. thought of you ” no punctuation. that felt right. something between a confession and a dare. she stared at the words like they didn’t belong to her. she hadn’t thought of the gala in months — hadn’t meant to think of roman tonight at all. but then the song had started playing, slow and wistful, and something in her chest had curled in on itself. the memory had arrived uninvited: him, sharp in a tux, her in that pale dress that had made her feel like smoke. they’d danced like they were both pretending not to enjoy it. it was a long time ago, really. just kids. it was last year. maeve hated that she’d sent it. hated more that part of her hoped he’d reply. she was not the girl who sent late-night texts. she was not the girl who lingered in half-lit pubs waiting for a boy from her childhood to show up like a phantom. she was composed. she was cold, when she needed to be. she knew how to make exits before things got embarrassing. but here she was. one elbow propped on the sticky table, glass turning warm in her hand, staring at the golden ring of condensation like it had secrets. her reflection in the window looked softer than she felt. the bartender asked if she wanted to close out. maeve shook her head. maybe roman would ignore it. maybe he’d show up. maybe it didn’t matter. maybe she just didn’t want to go home. outside, the street was empty and wet with old rain. inside, the song played on, and maeve sat very still, willing herself not to hope.

i am once again indecisive about designs

*my bones rattle and when you set me down my eyes roll around in my head like im a dizzy cartoon character*