Sitting in an abandoned house should be considered a pastime. Smoking in an abandoned house with your girlfriend should be considered one too. Because I do both of those things a lot. There’s a place not far from George’s, that’s run down with no glass windows and no door, and it’s just an old open barn with rusted machine parts and a dusty floor. Going there is good when you’ve got a wine bottle to yourself or you have to go out later and you really need a smoke, but you don’t want to get all smelly because you have to be somewhat professional. She and I both came here to celebrate a gift we got with some mary jane and a bottle of wine.
We opened the bottle and sipped down about three quarters of it, and then she lit the spliff for the two of us to share. After warming ourselves up and getting excited for the reveal, I said, “Fuck it” and she smiled.
I unwrapped the fabric that covered the cold metal, and it wasn’t long until there was a small black gun sitting on my lap. I glance to her, and she gave me a look that could only be described as “hell yes.” I loaded the gun, and snapped it ready.
I pointed it right between her eyes. Her expression quickly melted, and then she moved her face out of the opening’s way. “Stop.” She says quietly, her teeth on the verge of being gritted.
I swiveled the gun so it met up with her forehead again. This time she slapped it away, shouting “It’s not funny!”
“What?” I said, pointing the gun to the ceiling and waving it back and forth with a limp wrist. “No bullets in ‘ere.” Does she actually think I was going to shoot her?
Taking another gulp from the bottle of booze, I get up and stand with my legs apart, right through the empty window where she was watching me. I point the gun at her dramatically again. She waves her hand in front of it again, telling me to stop once more. I don’t listen. I keep it locked on her until she spits the insult “wanker” at me, and walks away from the building, leaving me with the burnt out butt of a joint, half the bottle, and a gun. Taking in more of the alcohol, I examine the gun in my hands, and then think to myself, “Fuck, imagine the people who get to carry these things around every day.” I pretend I see a person I hate on the other side of the run-down barn, and imitate the sound of the gun going off as I flick my wrist to make it seem like the gun went off.
I spin it around on my fingers, telling myself I probably look like a badass doing it, because whenever someone has a gun they look cool. I take in more of the wine.
I know what we’re going to do with this gun, the plans are all laid out. George is going to get us there, and Ross and Hann are going to come along. She and I are gonna pull this whole thing off. I put the tip of the gun to my top lip, even hitting my teeth a little. I take the bottle in my hand then then get up, tipping my head back to get more of the liquid to mess with my brain.
The taste is starting to get sour in my mouth as I continue to down it, and not before long do I realize that it’s almost entirely gone. I get up, pacing my way through the barn, unsteadily, probably. I climb up onto a piece of something that’s been lying on the ground, and I pretend that I’m a trapeze artist, trying to walk a tightrope. It doesn’t seem that hard. Jesus Christ, I found my calling. I hop, and land on one foot, still on my tightrope, high above the burning net below me, the entire crowd watching me from beneath.
I laugh to myself, I’m pretty proud of this. I bet you Hann can’t walk on a tightrope. Especially while holding a gun and an open bottle of wine. I bet you none of them could do this. Sure, Hann can probably skateboard better than I can…but this? Hell no!
I reach the end of the tightrope – but I’ve realized something. There’s nothing at the end of it for me to hop onto. The other side of the rope had been held up by a single pole. I can’t turn around – there’s fucking fire underneath me! I’ll die!
I take one more step – the last step before I reach that one pole, and I stumble. Fuck, that’s it. I’m dead! But instead I don’t fall to my death. I’m on a flat surface. It’s the ground of the barn. I look at the black gun in my hand, it’s still cocked and ready to go, even though there’s nothing in there. I scared her off by pointing it in her face. I look to my other hand, and there’s the empty bottle of wine. I kneel down onto the floor, thankful that I’m not on a tightrope anymore. I guess I got too drunk.
After I try and mentally get myself sober. I leave the bottle there and stuff the gun in one of my back pockets of my trousers, and then I make it a mission to find her. She’s probably not too far away, moping about how I put a fatal piece of metal towards her that didn’t actual do any damage. She’s about halfway between the barn and George’s place, and I call out her name.
She turns and looks at me, her eyes slit, and she’s still angry at me. She turns away from me again, continuing to kick bigger pebbles on the road as she makes her way back. I run up to her, grabbing one of her hands and then spinning her around, kissing her cheek when she wrapped up between my body and my arms. She rolls her eyes when my lips meet her skin, and she tries to push away, but she can’t stay mad at me. She never does. I never stay mad at her.
I lean her face up, since she won’t look me in the eyes, and I kiss her immediately, that way she doesn’t have to look at me if she doesn’t want to. She kisses me back, and my forearms trap her face to mine, and she hugs me tightly around my torso. We stay there, hugging in the middle of the street, exchanging kisses, until I’m no longer drunk on that booze, I’m drunk on her.
