Out of Style [inspired by "Style" from 1989]

Part 1: No Headlights

           I try to stop myself from glancing up the street, but it’s futile.  I’m anxious.  Can’t help it.  I'm tapping the tips of my fingers against my arm.  It probably looks like I'm waiting impatiently, but I just can't keep still.

      I see the shape moving toward me before I realize it's a car.  A big one.  An SUV, maybe?  Its headlights are out.  I clear my throat.  It has to be him.  Either that or it's some sort of hitman.  Who else would drive with the lights off?  But why would anyone hire a hitman for me?  I shake my head, mentally lecturing myself for acting like an idiot.  Breathe, I think.  Deep breath in, deep breath out.

     It helps.  Slightly.  By now, he'd pulled up a few feet away from me.  He rolls down the window and looks at me, green eyes flashing in the streetlight as he turns his head.  My heart races.  

     Breathe.  Just breathe.

     "Hey," I say.  I push my hands down into my pockets and hope the fringe on my scarf isn't sticking to my lipstick.  

      "Get in," he says, tilting his head toward the passenger side.  I step off the curb and walk around the truck.  He leans over the passenger's seat and opens the door, pushing it toward me.  I catch it and take one last deep breath before hopping up into the seat.  I shut the door gently.

      He hits the accelerator and we move forward.  I don't say anything, and neither does he.  He's holding onto the wheel with one hand, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles look whiteish, even in the limited light.  My eyes travel over his tattoos, each one a dark mark that I can't identify by sight in the dimness.  I look at the dashboard.  12:17 stares back at me.  I lean back into the seat and close my eyes.

     It's been months since we've spoken.  I should've known better than to agree to see him.  I was just so thrown by the sight of his name on my phone.  And the messages.  need to see u, he'd written. u up?  

      I open my eyes and look at him.  He has his hair pulled back from his face with a rolled-up bandana, and he's chewing on his lip.  I flex my hand and set it in my lap. Minutes pass.  I sigh.  

      He turns to me and full-on stares.  Shouldn't he be looking at the road?

      "What."  I'd meant it as a question, but I'm on edge so it comes out sounding more like I'm snapping at him.  He shakes his head and turns back to the street.  I ball my hand into a fist.  Seriously?  

       There was this one day when we'd driven out to some city neither of us had ever been to. We bought ice cream and sat by the pier together, watching the sunset.  He'd worn a tight white shirt, his trademark skinny jeans, and his hair had been constantly blowing into his face as he spoke.  He'd combed his fingers through it, not realizing what he was doing, as he talked.  I guess he was subconsciously trying to tame it.  I still had the skirt I'd worn that day; I'd gotten the stain out from his dripping chocolate cone, but it still reminded me way too much of how easy that day had been.  Every time I thought about it, I remembered the way he'd tasted like chocolate when he leaned over to kiss me.  We'd fought during our relationship--a lot--but days like that always made the whole thing feel like it was worth it.  It makes me angry that it still hurst to think about it.  I shouldn't need any guy to make me happy, and no one should have the power to upset me.  But that's life, I guess.

      I could ask him why he'd messaged me tonight, or ask what he was doing in my area in the first place, but I don't.  Maybe it's weak of me, or pathetic, but I just want to live in this moment for a little bit longer.  Driving in the dark, the radio playing softly, without plans to turn back around any time soon; it's the most calm I've felt in a while, and I don't want it to stop.

       My eyes trail up his taut forearm, lingering on the shadows of his tattoos.  I remember what it feels like to have those arms pinning me beneath him as he kissed my neck, telling me all of the ways he was going to make me moan in between the pressure of his lips on my skin.  At the time, it made me shiver.  My eyes trailed down his body, remembering the feeling of his chest beneath my hands, or his own tangled in my hair.  Sometimes, when I was halfway to sleep, I remembered the way he'd say my name.  I didn't want to, but it happened anyway.  

      God, I'm pathetic.  When did I become that girl?  

      "I wanted to see you," he says abruptly.  His voice is gruff, the accent more pronounced than usual.  I turn and stare at him.

        "I'm here right now."  I frown at him.  "What do you want?"

        He looks at me.  I mean, really looks at me.  Usually his eyes are constantly moving, wanting to take in everything around him.  Ironically, when they should be doing exactly that, he's staring.  At me.  I exhale sharply and turn back to the windshield.  

     "I miss you," he says.  I fight to keep my expression neutral.

       I remember the first time he'd said that to me.  He'd been away for work, and then he showed up at my door a day early.  When I'd opened it, he pulled me to him and kissed me like he was desperate.  One of his hands twisted into the hair at the nape of my neck, anchoring my lips to his, and the other slid down my back until he pulled me to him, his body flush against mine.  He held us together like an any bit of space between us was too much. When he finally pulled back, he was out of breath.  He'd leaned forward, touched my forehead to his and murmured, "Damn, I missed you."  

      I shook my head, trying to clear away any lingering thoughts.  I will not be the girl I was after he'd left.  I clear my throat.  

     "You ended this." I remind him, coming back to the present.  I look back to see him frowning.

      "Yeah," he said, staring at me again.   My eyes darted to his hand, which tightened even more, if that was even possible.  "I remember."  And he didn't sound all that happy about it.