m/m/m

evening

The stars kiss your eyelids as you tilt your head back and sway to the rhythm of ordinary love. You're twenty years old and his hands are on your hips as you both move languidly to the soft hum of his car radio, parked beside the small enclosure the two of you have made with blankets from your closet and red wine that you've already spilt on the fabric under your feet.

He's older than you. He has a wife, you're pretty sure he has a kid. You don't mind though. You like the new dresses he buys you, the way he whisks you away in the middle of the night on these secretive drives outside of town -- like you're a princess being saved from her captors in the dead of night by some valiant knight in shinning armour. It's a dreamy alternative to acknowledging the fact that you're allowing him to throw thirty years of marriage down the drain.

So for now, you keep your head in the clouds and breathe the smell of wine on his lips; cock your head with a smile while his hand runs up your thigh, and politely let him take you in the backseat of his car all while pretending not to see the swinging rosary hung around the rear-view mirror.

Six months from now, his wife will walk in on the two of you defiling her own bedroom after coming home early from work. Three weeks after that, you'll run into his teary-eyed daughter at a coffee shop and learn that she's only one year younger than you.
But for now, you're happy and you allow the dark sky and the rumbling of his car motor lull you to sleep has he drives you back to your apartment.

rebirth

The humming of your refrigerator is the soundtrack to your saturday night, and the dirty dishes stacked sky-high in your sink are the backdrop to your life. Your head is resting on your mother's thighs as you tip back a beer and haphazardly text friends on your cellphone, slowly letting the warmth of the alcohol move through your veins and take over your senses.

Your mother's head is craned above you and her hair is tickling the top of your head as she works her way through her ninth beer of the hour. Her head is bobbing from side to side and she's humming a tune that you don't quite know, but the melody resonates with you (as your mother's songs so often do) and you find yourself trying to humming along. She laughs a bit -- a throaty chuckle resonating from the back of her throat -- and you look up to meet her eyes. She looks exhausted, her skin aging less-than-gracefully and dark circles etched under eyes, but she's smiling down at you and you love the way her lips curve upwards and her eyes crinkle from laugh lines.
She asks you if you recognize the song and you admit it's familiar, but you can't place your finger on it. She gently moves herself out from underneath your head and you shift yourself into sitting position to watch her go, resisting the urge to reach out and steady her as she sways a bit when she stands.

By the time she moves into the kitchen and begins to fiddle with CDs, your interest has dulled and you go back on your phone. The next thing you know, the creaky speakers of your radio begins to flood the room with music and you glance up to see your mother slowly dancing towards you. You can't help the laugh that bubbles up in your throat, and you finish your beer before standing to move to the beat of the song. Your body moves to the rhythm and you haven't stopped laughing as you shake your head and let your senses become intoxicated from pure feeling of happiness.

You recognize the song now -- it's a Dancing With Myself cover by Nouvelle Vague and you start screaming the lyrics out in your small, two-bedroom apartment as your mother turns up the music. You're twirling and spinning, sashaying your hips and shaking your arms; you don't even notice that your laughter and singing turns to crying, until your mother is holding you as the two of you sway in your kitchen and your tears stain her shirt.

You want to tell her what's wrong, you want to let her know that your leaving in a few days and you're never coming back. You don't know why you even started thinking about the plane ticket you bought -- maybe dancing in your kitchen half-drunk at three in the morning made you realize how much you're going to miss your mom, and how maybe you're making a huge mistake by running away and trying to hit it big in Canada, since you can't seem to find stardom in New York.

You promise yourself right there in the middle of your kitchen that you'll come back and live with your mom again after you become a star -- after people buy your CDs to listen to at three in the morning and dance to in their kitchen. You'll come back, and you'll whisk her away and give her the life she deserves after you become a brand new person. A superstar. You're eighteen and ripe with potential -- you know you are. Your mom knows you are. And so you let her kiss away your tears and spend the rest of the night swaying to the music and counting down the hours until you get on that plane and become an entirely new person.