Re: log: dylan & max
It was easier to remember all that shit as bad, because it meant she wouldn't go there again. If she remembered the good, then she'd be sitting there, star-eyed and making him uncomfortable. She'd played that game before, and it always ended the same, with someone walking away. No, she'd told herself she wasn't going there before he'd wormed his way into her heart, and she was all the more determined now. Anything she felt, it was getting drowned in shots, and the world was made of kaleidoscopes after that last bit of amber.
She watched him wipe the foam away from his mouth with the slowly tracking gaze of someone who was blown-pupils buzzed. Then her gaze slipped down to where he was wiping the bar. She'd been in his place. It had been a mess of electronics and video games, and the most he'd had to offer was the couch before retreating to an equally crowded bedroom for a fuck. Her gaze had climbed to his face by the time he looked up, curiosity looking him in the eye. "Drunk enough to tell me what your prison was like?" She slurred it; definitely not sober, long fingers touching the back of his hand in indication of why she'd asked the question.
She stubbed her smoke out. "I think Ella's gone." If she minded, there was no indication. But then, with Max, there seldom was.