Guilty

They met in a grimy house, with tumultous surroundings. She was dating his friend, he was too fucked-up to notice her. They had mutual friends, and would occassionally run into eachother, always saying, 'Hey! I haven't seen you in so long. Do you still talk to ________?" Never had anything real to say to eachother, and most of the time, they were drunk. He started seeing her more, and more often. She was a lot more mature. He finally got her number, she didn't think anything of it, she never even saved it. When he would call or text, she would reply with, 'Who's this?' She wondered how that made him feel. The midnight calls got more frequent, she still didn't suspect a thing. They finally hung out together, but with friends, it was her birthday. He was wearing a black leather jacket--that did not fit him, and a black fedora. His clothes obviously weren't his. He thought that she liked boys like that, 'bad boys.' The party didn't matter, it was cheap, and there was mud on the ground, and girls dancing on top of trash cans. They left--went back to his friends house. They were all drunk. He got so fucked-up that he was laying on the floor, trying to sweet talk to her to lay next to him, she went. He threw up--everywhere. She changed him, he changed her. They knew what soft drinks to order when one was in the bathroom, they know how they like each others burgers, She knew exactly how he liked his turkey sandwiches, they know what makes eachother happy, they know what makes eachother sad. He knew exactly where she liked to be touched/kissed, and so did she. He always told her how much he loved her, she was a mute.

She loved him. He loved her. They had plans.