By: Sam Reilly
When Mom grounded me for smoking dope, I snuck out and ended up at Cori’s, where I got drunk and asked her to pierce my ear. She numbed my lobe with an ice cube. Then she stuck me. “I think you—it looks sexy.”
That was kind of how our relationship went.
We sat on the couch in her bonus room as she rested her head in my lap.
Black and white films played in the background, and we sipped from the Gatorade bottle of whiskey I took from my parent’s liquor cabinet. Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, the male gaze in full effect. I looked down at Cori and brushed the sandy blonde hair behind her ears.
We talked about parental indiscretions and fears of roaming brick-o-block hallways. We buzzed. She curled up next to me and fell asleep on my shoulder while Dave Matthews wondered whether we were right side up or upside down or if any of it was real.
After Christmas break, she got a boyfriend. Who played sports, wore cords on his Ray Bans, and sported a Justin Bieber haircut before Justin Bieber was a thing. In short, he was a tool.
Months went by before Cori came over, soaking wet from the early summer thunderstorm. She was also drunk, stumbling around my room.
She began to undress in front of me, telling me about how the tool cheated on her. Some slut from Independence who apparently doesn’t mind experimentation as much as Cori. I listened and watched mascara dripped down over the pink bow of her Victoria’s Secret bra.
Cori climbed into bed and slid underneath the covers. Her skin was smooth and cold as she wrapped my arm around her. Cranberry vodka fumed from her mouth.
“I knew that earring looked sexy.” She squeezed me tighter.