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BLUEBERRIES AND THE OCEAN
Maybe its because he’s high all the time, but Heather keeps
reminding him of blueberries. Sweet, and ripe, and untainted by all this other
bullshit. She’s pure, with big blue eyes and blue streaks in her soft
blonde hair.
She doesn’t talk much. Everybody else is talking all the time—Ali, Lisa, Marty,
even that Derek guy—but Heather just shuts up and looks at everybody, watches
everybody. Someone else might say its because she’s vacant, but Donny sees it,
sees other things in her. People think he’s vacant too, but he just thinks
differently than other people. Kind of like Heather.
The first time they’re alone together—or practically alone, Marty watching TV
in the corner and occasionally glancing up at them, watching them fuck—she
pulled him on top of her and licked his lower lip, sliding her panties off with
one hand. Florida is fucking weird that way. He’s still getting used to the
fact that he can know what a girl’s pussy tastes like without ever knowing her
name.
He knows Heather’s name, though. It’s kind of a comfort, to be able to repeat HeatherHeatherHeather
in his head, so he doesn’t have to think about anything. He has a knife is his
back pocket and some kid he’s never met before is talking shit in the front
seat, and in about twenty minutes the plan is insert knife A into kid B. Next
to him Heather smells like the ocean, and her hair is warm on his bare arm.
Donny decides that, for the moment at least, it’s better to just get high and
not worry about the consequences.
END
