witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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With every sip I become less guarded, swinging my hands around the necks of boys I don't know, who in turn cling to my waist and hips.

Our faces become a palette as the lights dance off our eyelids and the tips of our fingers as we throw them in the air.

Click. Click. Click.
Downtown, my heels slap against the sidewalk and my tongue against the roof of my mouth. A rogue wink exchanged with a stranger in the dark night dissipates as we discuss how our stars are aligned.

I feel delicate but depthless. My little black dress wraps around my body like Saran and hugs every curve in sight. Its long sleeves stand little chance in the chilling night against the deep scoop exposing my back and making my spine curl up and emerge.

At night's end, we stumble through your door and I find myself holding a crossword I don't recall solving. As the water boils and I stir our macaroni, you find a makeshift box and jokingly propose to me.

7:19 p.m. - Sunday, Aug. 16, 2009

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