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You hand her a shiny silver disc, still warm from its hastily etched laser baptism. She takes the CD gingerly, frowning slightly at the mishmash of black lines that slash across the surface.

"What's all this?"

You stammer a little, aware of your ineptitude. "Well, I was trying to decorate it for you. That's what you do with mix CDs."

She peers at the artwork. "This looks like a vagina. Is this music about pussies?"

It was supposed to be a heart with a crack ripping through it, an emblem of love broken and twisted. The Sharpie had rebelled against the magnitude of its mission.

"No."

She doesn't ask what it was supposed to be. Instead she flips the disc end over end cursorily, stopping to examine the manufacturer's brand name. The embossed logo is flanked by two poorly rendered hardcore stars that came out relatively well, considering the time invested. You thought that they might match the ragged stars that she carves into her wrist on particularly black nights. She doesn't notice.

"Pengo. You made me a Pengo CD. Is this supposed to be a penguin or something?"

She jabs halfheartedly at another messy scrawl. You can tell she's lost interest though: her eyes glaze over and she's no longer with you. Where does she go on these adventures when she leaves her body behind? Why can't she stay?

"Why can't you stay?" you blurt out. Mistake. Her eyes focus, narrow in on you until they're pinpoints.

"What?" The pins gouge. There is malice in her voice, but also traces of glee. You've given her the advantage and she knows it.

"Why can't I stay? What is this bullshit, Jonathan? First you give me this half-assed birthday CD that you obviously burnt less than ten minutes ago - it's still warm, you retard - and then you expect me to hop into bed with you?"

You're stammering now, backpedaling where there's no room.

She pauses, draws breath for the spiteful conclusion. The gleam in her eyes suggests that it's going to be a good one and you inhale too, anticipating the rush. But then something happens that has never happened before. The gleam dulls and in this moment you know that she's gone again, that she's living the life and seeing the things and doing the people that lie beyond the slamming door and squealing tires.

She hesitates. You don't. You grab the CD from her hand and snap it in half, splintering the songs that say what you can't. She stands with a queer look on her face, half dreaming and half surprised. Her hand is still curled, holding a phantom mix disc that she would have never listened to.

You're hoping that she doesn't glance at the door. She does. You look at the shattered CD in your hands and think of what could have been, of the places that you'll never share. She would never let you come with her anyways. You choose the half with the jagged edge and draw it quickly across her throat.

She's leaving again.

Inspired by www.girlsarepretty.com.

Posted by Chris at 03:38 PM >> Commentations (0)