Charm

Charm drives drunk. Under stretches of sky that yawn and flash their fireworks for him, he drives with the window down and his mouth open. There’s vodka at the back of his throat, a thrill on the edges of his breath. His passengers shriek and worry at him until he pulls over, because Charm is blind sometimes, when it comes to pushing his luck. He smiles, showing a hint of gleeful guilt behind crooked teeth, smiles with the unruly enthusiasm of a child.

Charm is sure footed in the little bit of swagger he has, but a the same time, his feet barely ever touch the ground. He lingers downwind of the blushes and giggles and girlish whispers of “He’s looking at me, tell me when he’s looking at me.” Confined to the backseat, his hand finds that of a girl with color high in her cheeks. He squeezes and looks out the window, because behind her moderately attractive face and exhaustingly giddy smile, Charm sees a solid, satisfying number 27.

Charm is wicked when he shows you his teeth, because everything is never enough for someone who snaps the bones of smitten girls fingers for fun.

The only one he’ll ever love is a curvy slip of a woman they call Life. To nibble Lifes lips, to touch the rolling hills of her hips and fall asleep facing each other, mixing the wind in her breath with his.

He wants to catch Life in her unravelling moments, to swallow her, to wallow in her, like thick summer air he wants to choke on her. He yells to Life how much he wants her, and only confides in me how much he hopes she wants him back.