Purple Feet

He isn’t drunk, although he was acting it outside with the others. I never really understood why he invited me. I didn’t fit in, I barely even knew all of these people and besides, I was nothing to them anyway, nothing. I never really understood why he had been so nice to me the days before, either; the weeks and months before for that matter. We were in the same class, and for months I’d been sitting alone, until one day he just patted the table next to him and told me to sit. And then he smiled. And then we talked and he got really into it. And he looked at me. “You have a nice face,” he said. I smiled and replied, “So do you.”

And then this. I’m totally out of my element, and people are treating me like I’m some case that needs special attention. I feel dizzy because, although I haven’t been drinking, if feels like I’m being intoxicated by everyone else’s dizziness. I flee up the stairs and into the first room I can find, which turns out to be his bedroom. I’m not thinking when I throw myself onto his bed and break into a soft sob. I can smell him, his scent is one with the covers. Bed unmade, I’m sure he won’t mind if I roll myself in. I know this isn’t a good place to be; anyone could barge in at any given moment and do heaven knows what, but it feels so much safer that what’s outside the door. And like that the doorknob’s sinking, and the door is pushed open, and he’s standing there, alone.