Red Streaks

He was half-drunk and sitting in his dorm room, eating a package of ready-to-bake cookie dough and watching the commentary on a popular television show. Half-drunk with the jitters running through the tips of his fingers and down to his feet, he turns off the television and grabs the phone. He dials her number.
         Ringing.
         There is the small click of the phone being answered, and then nothing but heavy breathing for seven to eight seconds. He says nothing until she asks, “Pete?”
         “Were you fucking someone?”
         “…Yes. Yes, I was fucking someone.”
         “Ah, Jesus, I’m sorry.”
         “I was being sarcastic.”
         “Oh.”
         “…What do you want, Pete?”
         “Nothing, Angela. So… so, at Eli’s tonight…”
         “No.”
         “What?”
         “No. I wasn’t flirting with you, and I wasn’t fucking Wes.”
         “I didn’t ask if you were fucking Wes.”
         “Oh… well, I fucked Wes.”
         Very sincerely he said, “Oh, great… that’s really good for you. For both of you.”
         “I’m coming over.”


         Twenty minutes later they were both leaning out of his window, a bag of weed between them, that strange smell and entwining smoke rising into the stars, making beautiful the constellations. Very dangerously he thought, I could throw you out this window right now. Down, over the sides, tumbling through nothing in a terrified manner until you hit the ground, and then I’ll call the ambulance. The pot made the first story look far more elevated than it was.
         She looked at him, with all the watery sadness in any number of women’s eyes and asked, “Why do you always do this? It’s 1:30 in the morning. I’m not always going to be up this late.”
         “I know. I’d like very much to kiss you right now.”
         “I know you would, but your nose is bleeding.”
         “What?”
         “Your nose is bleeding.”
         Pete wiped a finger under his nose and nearly cried at the streak of red embarrassment lingering on his finger. How dare it ruin this moment! How dare it steal her lips away! How dare it choose this one significant moment in all of time to let loose its blood vessels! His nose was a God of sabotage.
         “I wouldn’t have kissed you anyway.” She said.
         “Fuck you, Angela.”
         And at that, she giggled, and leaned over, and placed one careful kiss on his lips, blood trickling between their lips.
         “Thanks.” Pete said. “That was disgusting.”
         “I know. Not as romantic as you think it’d be.”
         “It’s gonna take days to get that blood taste out of my mouth.”
         “Me too.”
         And they shut the window.