Re: MOMA: Sam & Russ
Nah, she wasn't washed out, and she wasn't pain-pill white. She was a different kind of thing, and not her usual or whatever. She bounced on the heels of new-charity sneakers, and her hands were shoved deep into worn overalls. She rocked, back and forth, like something pushed and pulled, and she took one one of the tickets he offered, fingers yanking too hard on the stub. She didn't immediately think to turn and go in, though she should have, yeah? But she didn't. She tipped her head back to the sunshine, and Spring made New York not so bad, yeah? Not like winter, when everything was grey and dreary, and it wasn't as a good as summer, but it was close.
Summer made her think of Florida, and she thought maybe she should just go back to the carnival, yeah? She wished no one knew about the door; that was a good one for hiding. No one fucking went there, and she could spin stories and people would believe them. Not like now, when no one believed she had her shit together, and she hated people watching her unravel. Maybe that was bullshit, needing that, but she needed it. She needed someone, somewhere in the fucking world to believe she wasn't a complete fucking mess.
Even if it wasn't true.
Anons were good for that, and hot guys from parties were good for that. But people she looked in the face, they weren't so good for that. Russ was maybe the best for it, because he didn't actually fucking see her. She could tell, standing there, that he didn't. He saw whatever he wanted to see, and everything else wasn't there. It was like when she talked about shit he didn't want to hear, and he ignored that too. Louis, Cris, Neil, and yeah, she wasn't a fucking idiot. She noticed.
She remembered about the doors into the museum, then, and she waved the ticket with too much exuberance. She sniffed, and then she skipped off toward the doors with dilated pupils, red-raw at fingers and lips. "Yeah? So come on."