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Golden Boy (Gatorade Blues)

Author: travwell
Elite Ratio:    8 - 54 /38 /26
Words: 519
Class/Type: Prose /
Total Views: 989
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
Bytes: 2706


An edit of Gatorade Blues (here:

I'm not sure about the length, was it better shorter?

Also, I know the sentences are a bit lengthy as well. This is my natural style, but do you think they should be shorter?

Golden Boy (Gatorade Blues)

[Golden Boy (Gatorade Blues)]
After the game you leave your friends to drive me around. Our gameplan – I walk a safe distance away, turn a corner from parking lot C, and wait for you to pull up in your shining black Jeep. My breaths turn ghosts in the biting air, but you’re hot and I’m already chilled bleacher-seat-cold anyway, so I keep the windows rolled down. The breeze is the smell of the golden leaves and the golden touchdowns of the golden autumn that you love so much. Maybe to make up for my chattering teeth you let me put the Misfits on, and I have to take your Dave Matthews CD out. We cruise around the nice houses in songs and smiles. When dusk settles we find the golden glow of the party you’re looking for. The party thumps its bass-line alive just for you. All that's left for me to swallow are raised eyebrows and question marks shot in my direction, but you take even those in stride. You have my hand in yours and I have your back in sight until we are split apart by a toppling couple conjoined at the tongue. I have to lose myself to find you, sinking into the center of the party. There you feed your buzz, tipping your head back with a golden bottle to your lips, where I wish I could be. I love it when you get drunk, you get so dumb. Tonight’s special, Corona Light warm, like water when it goes down but like vomit when it soaks through your jeans. And you choke me with it, your drunkenness that’s so cute when you’re knocked out cold. I slur my words, pretending, even when there’s no rum in my coke. I trade feigned drunkeness for confidence just so I can bring myself to ask a quarterback from another school to drag you off the bathroom tiles. Later I cure your hangover with Gatorade that always turns your tongue blue, and it soothes you. The light spilling from the open refrigerator door is the moonlight, my living room couch a cloud. And your kisses are cranberry vodka Riptide Rush that never, ever catches me by surprise, even when I taste a hint of cherry lipgloss that I know isn’t mine or yours. I still like the way you’ll apologize afterwards; you’re always so sorry when you still have liquor and electrolytes under your breath. When Monday comes around we’ll pretend that we were never together at a party in the next town over. We'll hope that one girl we saw was flirting too heavily to notice your football jersey in the same orange and blue as her cheerleader uniform. And when I see you in the hallways with your usual posse, taking up all the space from locker to locker, and I’ll hug my books and hold my breath and walk by so it only hurts like a hangover bruise, and nothing else.

Submitted on 2007-11-29 21:27:45     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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  Heh, the part that got me the most was the section about the guy being passed out on the bathroom floor. I think that happened to me, but I don't remember. I helped a guy in a similiar situation once.

Passed out, they look almost like children.

Sentiment aside: The only thing I have qualms about is, as you worried, the sentence length. They just go on a bit too much. Like trying to fit more ice in the water glass than you should. The meaning begins to spill.

That is however, only my opinion. There's a category for every story, and this tidbit is surprisingly tasteful.
Keep it up :)

| Posted on 2007-11-30 00:00:00 | by Flynn | [ Reply to This ]

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