Slips

The first day of college feels like a punch in the stomach - unexpected, unprepared for. My throat dry from weeks spent in a drunken haze, eyes wincing in the strange September sunlight, even with my aviators on. I walk through the bustling streets of early morning London, teeth chewing at my chapped lips. I stand at the pedestrian crossing, close my eyes, breathe in the petrol-infused air, and let my mind mill over the images of my Summer. Her thin body in his arms, sleeping contentedly after a night of mild substance abuse; his eyes as he invites me upstairs; her bare skin, perspiration making it glisten in the moonlight. A smile plays across my lips then, as my mind is prompted by the memory of that first night on the tartan blanket, to think of the many hours since that have been spent similarly. The traffic lights turn red, and I follow as my fellow commuters cross the road. As the mellow sounds of Maroon 5 infiltrate my ears, my thoughts drift to a week ago, my abrupt revelation, and her succinct, demeaning response: "you don't know what love is." I smile as I remember my frank rationale, "neither of us do."
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn my head to find her fresh face smiling at me. She slips her hand into mine, and we walk up to the gates of the glass sixth-form building. Feeling the warmth of her skin on mine, I am filled with conviction in the belief that, perhaps nobody knows what love is, but it can't hurt to try and find out.

Abdomen

My front teeth gnaw at my thumbnail, as my mind resounds with Emily's words; "you love her". My feet march, on autopilot, towards her house. I unlatch the small gate and walk up the garden path to her front door, clench my hand into a fist and throw three powerful knocks at the green-painted wood. As I wait to be greeted, my thoughts drift to two nights ago; her unexpected arrival at my house... even less predictable behaviour. I remember thinking, through an alcohol infused fog, that I didn't know why she was with me, that she couldn't actually want me; but I didn't care why she was kissing me, why her hand was working its way down my abdomen, why she had that uncertain look on her face. All that mattered was that I wanted her, and that, suddenly after months of being unattainable, she was there to be had. The door opens slowly, I hear her voice behind it, chattering on the phone I discover once she becomes visible.
"I have to go," she states upon seeing me, and hangs up.
My inhibitions fall to the floor unexpectedly. My mind stops functioning entirely as my heart takes over and I fall forward, pressing my lips to hers. She pushes me away after a long moment, and smiles slightly, eyes glistening as they fill with tears.
"I didn't think you were coming ba -"
"I think I love you."

Goose

My eyes open to a newly brightened day, warm sunlight spilling through the window and over the sofa where I lay. The sound of heavy footsteps descending the staircase sluggishly, resounds through the quiet house. I squint my eyes to see out of the half-open door, and find Tom's nude figure stepping down from the bottom step, to the wooden floor of the hallway. I pull the duvet over my head to stifle the cruel sound of irrepressible laughter; after knowing him for all of my teenage years, I am unable to evoke any other reaction at the sight of his gangly white body. I escape the confines of my goose feather tomb and bound up the stairs into Emily's bedroom. I climb beneath the heavy duvet with its plain white quilt cover and lay beside her sleeping silhouette.
"Just saw your hot boyfriend's bony bod'", I whisper into the ear not pressed to the pillow.
A smile creeps onto her sleepy face, followed by a gentle cackle, "sorry you had to witness that," she states, speech slurred, eyes still closed.
"She text me last night," I bite the skin surrounding my thumbnail.
"And you replied?"
"No... should I?"
I see her eyes open as the late morning sun filters through the duvet covering our faces, "you love her," comes her succinct response.
Her eyes close again and we lay in silence, the sound of Tom pottering around in the kitchen the only thing distracting my ears from my pounding heartbeat.

Blustery

I sit on the sagging sofa of Emily and Tom's small terraced house, wrapped in a duvet and scrawling through facebook on my phone. The barren student-type house creeks and heaves as the sudden blustery weather throws itself along the row of red-brick homes. I take a sip of the black filter coffee I made myself as soon as I awoke to find it wasn't yet 8AM; my index finger navigates the touch screen and brings me to the 'notifications' section. A wall post from 'Is James'. I follow the link and read the succinct public message to myself, "Text me back, dyke". I leave the webpage and wonder when I'll get round to speaking to her again, if ever. My mind is awash with nothing but confusion at my own thoughts and feelings - all I wanted this summer was her, then when I finally receive the opportunity to actually be something with her, I run away. Emily and Tom must still be asleep; the whole house is silent bar the patter of rain on the single-glazed windows. I rest my head on the arm of the sofa and feel myself gently relax into sleep. 

Tugging

We drive back in the direction of her house, the sun now set on our lazy afternoon. I stare blankly through the windshield, teeth tugging at the inside of my lower lip as my mind ponders fruitlessly. My fingers find the message from her on my phone, a helpless, 'where did you go?', yet to recieve a reply. We turn onto the street which houses the train station, she drums her palms rhythmically to the quiet sounds of the radio, and turns to face me.
"Mum and Dad indoors?" she looks back at the road in front of her.
"I don't know... neither of them came home last night..."
She doesn't respond, instead maintains her non-judgemental pretense. I assure her as the station comes into view that, 'I'll be fine', but her responsible, adult mind isn't appeased.
"You'll stay with me and Tom. At least until you've called to find out when they'll be back."
My lips stretch into a small smile, grateful for another day to think things over away from home. From her.

Basking

We sit opposite one another in Em's favourite pub/restaurant basking in the low, early evening sun, empty plates and constantly full glasses on the table in front of us. She smiles, pleased after all her nagging, that I ate a decent meal. Tears threaten once more as I realise how comfortable I am in her company, and that if I had merely spent time catching up with good friends, my summer would have been as good as I'd been hoping, with far less tears. She notices my chin trembling and gives my shin a kick under the table, "get a grip - we're in public," she says, feigning embarrassment. Her white teeth stretch into a smile so wide it overtakes all of her facial features, illuminating herself and everyone else in the room with its radiance.
"I've missed you," I utter, almost a whisper.
"I've missed you too!" she clutches my hands across the table, "don't leave it so long next time, missy."
I smile appreciatively at the fact that, however long we go without seeing one another, my oldest friend will always be there in my time of need; acting as though we were never apart.
"Buy me another drink?" I bat my eyelashes in the knowledge that she won't refuse - what's the point in having a nineteen-year-old best friend if she doesn't treat you every so often?
She walks over to the bar, credit card in hand, and I sit, trying to breathe without thinking about my other best friend - the one I've manipulated and punished nonchalantly. My phone lights up then with a text: her name flashes onto the screen.

Drum

Driving along the built up streets of inner-London in her battered vauxhall vectra, my thoughts are drowned out by the musings of a radio DJ interspersed with Emily's tuneless humming. We don't speak for the entire journey, my mind becoming contentedly numb, her's full, I'm sure with my teary story-telling. Her skin is irridescent in the light of the sun through the windshield, hands glow with a gentle tan, palms drum a rhythm to match her song, on the steering wheel. I close my eyes and let my skin bathe in the afternoon sun, the strength of it depicting an orange glow behind my eyelids.   

Gulp

    "Let's go for something to eat," she suggests, wide-eyed.
After hearing of my recent drama, she has not yet uttered a judgemental word. She hops up from her spot beside me on the sofa, announces that she needs to have a shower and saunters out of the room, bare feet padding on the uncarpeted stairs as she makes her way to the bathroom. I breathe a long sigh, exhaling any tension from my chest. I take another gulp from the near-empty bottle of wine and catch a glimpse of myself in the old mirror Emily has leant against the wall, too lazy to hang it. My eyes sit limply in my head, not adorned with any make-up bar the remnants of mascara that now lay on my cheeks beneath bloodshot eyes. My cheeks burn in the aftermath of my breakdown, conscience racked with guilt, I bite my lip to gain control of my trembling chin and blurry eyes. She reappears downstairs, short hair still damp from her shower, but fully-dressed. 
   "Ready?" she asks, smiling before slipping on her aviators and walking toward the front door.         

Sodden

I walk to the train station, buy a bottle of wine on the way and head in the direction of an old friend. My mind is plagued with a million thoughts - my betrayal, and consequent admission; his lips; her lips; those teary eyes. I open the screw top of my cheap bottle and take a large gulp as I stride toward the station entrance, sun beating down on my back. I tap my oyster on the reader and walk through the barrier, descend the escalator quickly in an attempt to arrive at her house whilst she's still in. Perhaps I should have called. My top teeth clamp down on my full bottom lip, fingers clutch the glass bottle possessively. Two stops and a short walk later, I am standing at her front door, waiting for her to greet me. She smiles, my arrival a welcome surprise, eyes wince at the harsh mid-day sun.
"Come in," she says groggily, standing in her boyfriend's boxers and a white vest.
I do as she says, and she pulls me into a warm embrace as soon as my foot is in the door. Arms still holding me tightly, she places a kiss on the top of my head; I feel the warmth of her mouth through my hair, and tears begin to fill my weary eyes.
"I've ruined everything, Em. I don't know what to -"
"Shh..." she interjects, and plays with my hair comfortingly whilst pushing the front door shut with her free hand.
We sit in her squalor of a living room, amongst empty beer bottles, dirty dishes and classic novels. She passes me a cigarette and as we light up, I begin to tell my story, her emerald eyes focused intensely on my tear-sodden face.

Greasy

"You're lying," she spits without a moment's hesitation.
I stare at her with silent conviction, take one last sip of my drink and replace it on the side before walking out of the sunlit kitchen to retrieve my phone from the garden. She follows, tears evident in her tone as she asks fragmented questions to the back of my head. I maintain my silence as I step through the french doors of the conservatory, reach down to the blanket, pick up my iPhone and scroll through the inbox until I find his name and our incriminating exchange. I throw the handset into her unsteady palms and walk back into the house. I march up the stairs to my room, pull off the t-shirt I replaced when the sun went down last night, just before she did... I shake thoughts of her from my mind, angry that she's forgiven him, and knowing that I've ruined things between us forever. I spray my greasy maine with dry shampoo, throw on an old band t-shirt, grab my oyster card and run back down the stairs.
"Where are you going?" she looks at me incredulously from the bottom of the stairway.
"Out."
Tears have filled her chocolate-brown eyes, she licks her lips and bites at the inside of her cheek. My mind wanders uncontrollably once more to the happenings of last night: her warm mouth, agile tongue. She stands motionless as I take my phone back and head for the door.
"How could you?" her voice breaks, breath quickens and wheezes as long-awaited tears roll down her face.
I ignore her question, open the door and step outside. She grabs my hand, pulls me back toward her and without a word, presses her mouth to mine.

Deludedly

A tense silence falls over us for a long while, but is broken by her irrepressible curiosity. She asks me, "who?" sullenly, her wide eyes looking up at me, silently pleading with my conscience. I contemplate telling her outright, imagine the words spilling from my mouth, and the devastation on her beautiful, sad face as she discovers once more that she does care who the girl was: that the girl was her best friend. 
     "How..."
      I decide, perhaps deludedly, that if I told her, I'd have some sort of power over them both... "It was me." 

Interject

I anticipate an all too familiar onslaught of tears as she begins to divulge the details of their sordid affair. I brace myself, so as not to involuntarily indulge my emotions. Irregular gusts of air whistle through the window, allowing us to breathe through the humidity of the early-August day. We do not move from our respective positions in the kitchen, as her voice, trembling to start with, regales me with tales of their late night rendezvous. She stares coldly at the window behind me, the glazed-over expression on her face prompts me to deduce that she isn't looking at anything in particular. 
    "I know I told you I wasn't going to speak to him - I ignored all his calls, texts and emails... But that first night I spent at home after staying here... I was so lonely. And he said she didn't mean anything - that I was the most incredible person he's ever met... she was nothing compared to me. He told me everything - that she was cheap. Gagging for it -"
   "Did he tell you who she was?" I interject, voice thick after that sharp stab of information.
    "No. But it doesn't matter - she was nobody. I don't care about her. All he wants is me."
     "So if you found out, you wouldn't care?"
Her face contorts, bemused. Her eyes adopt the look of a boasting child when recieved with the wrong reception from their audience. She utters an incoherent sound, a questioning expression on her face.
     "I know who she was," I state matter-of-factly.        

Tangle

She stands silently, looking down into her glass in an attempt to avoid eye contact with me. I lean against the kitchen counter on the opposite side of the clean white room. I haven't offered her anything to eat and don't intend to if she continues this chirade of naivety. I breathe in the morning air filtering through the window, only slightly ajar, and exhale deeply before pouring myself another drink. She has replaced hers on the countertop behind her and has retreated further into her own mind, gnawing silently at her thumbnail whilst her eyes glare, trance-like, into the clinical white floor tiles. The emptiness in the room doesn't register in my mind - my body pumps with alcohol infused blood, leaving my senses permanently numb.
     "How do you -"
     "I saw you both through the window."
     "I knew I shouldn't have let him come to mine," she mutters to herself.
I don't correct her with the fact that I saw them at his house; instead I stand receptively, and allow her to tangle herself in webs of guilt, as I remain the innocent party.   

Glug

Standing in the kitchen, the cold tiled floor cools my now warm body. Mother's glasses still sheilding my eyes, I look up at the smouldering sun and smile - a culmination of the knowledge that we're living in a decidedly determined heatwave; and the fulfilment that last night's antics evoked. I open the drinks cabinet for the umpteenth time this weekend, pull out a couple of bottles without acknowledging their contents, and mix them with a glug of coke. I pass her a glass, her thin fingers grip it tightly, she winces as the conconction trickles down her throat. Her beautiful dark eyes open, mouth stretches into a self-conscious smile as she notices my unashamed gaze.
    "God, you take your drinks strong," she states, rubbing her tired eyes, "have you been eating properly?"
    "Yeah," I mutter unconvincingly.
    "I'm worried about you, An..."
I shrug and take a large gulp of my drink, then turn my back to her in favour of the kitchen window. 
     "I mean, wouldn't you be worried if I was -"
     "Sleeping with Mark again?" I interrupt, my voice steady, measured so as to hide my jealousy.

Squeals

I wake up shivering, head aches as the harsh white sunlight penetrates my eyelids to make me suffer despite my squinting eyes. I reach over clumsily to find the daylight armour that is my Mother's designer glasses. The pounding now softening, I look over to her frail body; goose-pimpled arms beneath her head to act as a cushion, a pleasant expression lies gently on her face. I push my pale fingers beneath the glasses and rub sleep from my eyes. The conservatory door lies open, suggesting nobody came home last night. I lean over and breathe into her bejeweled ear, "wake up, toots," in a mock southern drawl. 
She giggles quietly, body convulses as it becomes conscious of the fact that we slept outside, unprotected from the chill that creeps in when the sun sets on a summer evening. Her nipples push through the light cotton material of her dress; "you're cold - let's go inside."
We stand up, leave everything outside - tartan blanket, my iPod, empty pitcher... My mind is hit by the memory of what we did with the several lonely-looking cubes of ice, her loud squeals penetrating the silent blanket that lay over our neighbours houses.     

Brushes

My eyes are shielded from the sun's harsh rays by my Mother's large sunglasses, usually employed to disguise dark circles after a particularly wild night with her younger lover. I have been laying in the same spot on a blanket in the middle of my garden for several hours, a pitcher of Jack Daniel's and a splash of coke by my side, the day growing ever hotter. I removed my t-shirt about an hour ago, skin far too clammy for clothes, and lay waiting for her in my bra and trusty denim shorts. She text me early this morning warning that she'd be round later. My heart begins to beat slightly faster at the thought of being confronted with her. I wonder if she'll mention him and decide she won't, whilst Paolo Nutini's lazy drawl caresses my ears through Dad's big headphones which I've yet to return to him. Not that he's noticed me using them - I've noticed of late how often my house is vacant of adults. Thoughts of my parents threaten to infiltrate my intentionally ignorant mind once more; I reach for the jug and pour myself another glass. My eyes stumble upon her bare feet in the doorway of the conservatory.
"Pour me one while you're at it," she instructs before padding over to my tartan island in the sea of lush green grass that is my back garden.
"I've missed you," she muses after a few silent moments, "I haven't heard from you in days. I know it sounds silly..."
"Thanks," I respond in a husky monotone, not removing my headphones.
My eyes remain shut, but I feel her body as she repositions herself to lay beside me. I feel her warm breath on my cheek; my own quickens as I turn to face her. I lift up my glasses to examine her figure more closely. Clad in a light cotton halter-neck dress, her perfectly formed breasts have formed a small cleavage as she remains on her side. Her tan legs glisten in the glow of the sunlight, hair falls over her shoulders, hand reaches over to my face. She pulls herself closer and brushes her soft lips against my own.
"You shouldn't be drinking this much whilst it's still so light out," she whispers.
"We shouldn't do a lot of things -"
"Yet we do them regardless - I know."
She hasn't moved back to her original space on the blanket; her face remains static, mere centimetres from mine. I lean into her, hesitantly, but she meets me half way. Her mouth opens and I follow her lead as the sun begins to set, the warm air takes on a slight chill, and we remain as we are and have always wanted to be.

Glittering

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the first vodka bottle bone dry; a half-empty bottle of more expensive vodka lies in my lap along with an empty can of beer and a brown-coloured miniature I found in the back of the alcohol cabinet. My eyes sting from earlier tears, yet, in my reflection look uncharacteristically steely and absent. I breathe in the cool air which whistles as it gushes through my window, and dances with the tobacco fumes of my usually crisp bed linen. My body has been on auto-pilot for several hours; mind bemused at my new behaviours but unwilling to amend them. I breathe in the heady smoke from another cigarette I stole from my mother's study when I was about twelve; and remember the awe in Isobel's face as I produced the untouched packet to her pre-pubescent self. 
     "That's so cool," she had said in delight, "you're my best friend."
A pang of remorse flicks at my puce heart, but is soon dispelled by my alcohol-induced nonchalance. I lay, unmoving for hours and watch the summer sky transform into an indigo coloured blanket laiden with glittering stars.  

Raw

Slowly, my breathing steadies itself, panicked heart rate decreases, and my mind becomes calm as I sit on the garden wall which barricades a properly preened front garden from the busy main road. Eyes have dried leaving grey streaks of diluted mascara on my cheeks, but my mouth is yet to moisten. I remember the small off-license situated beside the station and spill the coins from my purse into my hand... £5.69 - just enough to purchase a cheap bottle of vodka if I flutter my clumped eyelashes seductively enough. I'm aware of how far simple gestures can get me with young men from recent experience. I see his beautiful, embarassed face once more on that first day he really saw me, as he mopped up my drink with a handful of napkins, trying desperately to avoid eye-contact. The way his glistening blonde hair falls in his face, his large hands as they sweep it back, those eyes as they are revealed from the veil of blonde locks. I pass the man at the counter my collection of coppers and pound coins and walk out of the shop before he has the chance to count it. I unscrew the bottle and wince as the clear, scent-less liquid makes it's way down my raw, scratching throat. 

Enveloped

I swallow hard as my rasping breath pulls at my throat; I keep running. Every pore on my body exudes sweat in the humid, strangling air. A warm rain begins to fall and mixes with the salted water spilling from my eyes. I keep running. The startling sound of a car horn awakes me from my aimless trance, and my feet stop just short of its wing mirror. I close my eyes and feel incapable of keeping my body parallel; my head spins - a combination of shock and sudden adrenaline. My eyelids grow heavy, I burrow my fingers in my matted hair and tug at it whilst squinting in an attempt to steady myself. His hand on the lower-most part of her toned stomach is imprinted on my mind. Her closed eyes, head leaning against his chest, top teeth clamped to her lower lip. His hand moving toward her navy lace knickers. I turned away as the tips of his fingers were enveloped by lace and skin. My heart begins to pound more heavily, tears flow uncontrollably, mouth completely dry; I'm unable to breathe. My body is enveloped like his fingers, and is racked in its entirety by an inexplicable wave of panic.

Palacial

I step off the train several stops after I intended after pouring my heart out to the woman with the cashmere scarf which I used to blow my nose. Oh god, I'm a ridiculous person. I follow the crowd of other 'customers' blindly through the winding corridors of the station, and don't realise until I am beyond the barriers that I've arrived, by default, at his station. The street with its palacial houses sprawls out before my eyes, and I, unthinkingly begin to walk toward number 174. I don't look where I'm going. Instead I focus on the gold numbers which shine in the afternoon sun. 158...164...168...172...174. I stop outside the wooden gate, my mind buzzes with anticipation as I wonder what I should say to him. Do I want him again? Am I feeling angry or guilty or jealous that he hasn't text me since she found out? I begin to sweat, pupils dilate, pulse quickens as my fingers unlatch the gate. Then I look up to the grand house with it's large windows and I see them, bodies entwined and shirtless. Her face creases into a playful smile as he unfastens her navy lace bra. I turn away and run. 

Rising

Making my way down the elevator illuminated by strip-lighting, my heart pounds as though it is about to break out of its cage and fall clumsily onto the metal step on which I stand. I breathe slowly, trying to regain composure after my speedy walk from home to the main road. Screw it. I skip down the remainder of the escalator, practically sprint past the blonde busker swinging her hips and singing her lungs out. I make it to the platform after bumping into several other passengers and realise that my train is still four minutes away - I am no further ahead than the people I sped past self-importantly. The music which I had been walking rhythmically to has stopped playing, so I stand stationary, deflated at the edge of the platform. And without consent, my throat becomes dry, stomach feels as though it is rising through my torso to escape from my mouth, and knees feel too weak to carry my dumpy body. I can feel the heat rising in my face, and know that my nose and cheeks are turning an embarrassing shade of red; I pull the headphones down irritatedly, to rest on my neck. The hefty metal train sends a cooling breeze along the platform, but as I breathe in what I presume to be sweet, cold air, my taste buds are filled with mechanical smells and an unidentifiable combination of bodily odors. I cough and splutter as we all pile onto the train, to the disgust of my germ-wary passengers, one of whom immediately dives into her bag for her trusty hand sanitiser. My body feels strangely free within the confines of the silent carriage, muscles loosen and tears form in my eyes. The woman standing opposite catches my attention with a sympathetic smile, unconsciously prompting the immediate onslaught of tears which flow down my flushed cheeks.
"I slept with my best friend's boyfriend!" I announce to the carriage, before telling the poor woman my God-awful tale.

Sheepish

She decides to go home for the first time in a week, now more sure of herself - that she can be in a room by herself, that is. I see uncertainty in her eyes when she is telling me this, however, as though the demon, self-deprocating thoughts are already dancing behind those soulful brown irises. 
   "I'll be fine," she assures me between gnawing at her fingernails.
She shoots me a sheepish smile, picks up her handbag and walks out of the door, my size 14 jeans slipping down her thin hips with every step she takes. I decide to go for a walk. The four walls of my house have been slowly closing in on me since we arrived back from that fateful day at his house. My conflicting thoughts are amplified unbearably within the confines of my childhood home - a place that, ideally, should only be filled with playful, innocent memories. I grab my iPod and my Dad's unsightly headphones, so large they cover the entire surrounding area of either ear and flatten my hair; but so ear-splittingly loud that they may stand a chance of obliterating my resounding conscience. I leave the house and walk in time with the whiny tones of Caleb Followill. I reach the underground station on the main road and decide to catch a train somewhere. Anywhere.