There is something so appealing about a roasted chicken. It’s between the smell, the way the sweet meat rubs against your tongue as the skin gently crisps in your inner cheek, the way you slice it with every bite and never get sick of any part of it. But most of all, it’s the way you know that you are the predator, that that was the easiest prey alive, it only cost you a few bucks, and here you were feasting and feeling more human than ever before. You had become the predator and everything had become your prey. I promise this isn’t food porn.
Clementine always pondered a lot on car journeys, she let time roll by and she let her mind wander with it, the blossoms of the trees made her happy, and the ugliness of certain things in the world, like a dry pile of dog poop made her laugh. Driving in the not-so-smooth Peugeot mobile she had never intended to think about such things. She could have thought about how handsome David Beckam was, the smooth curves of his face hugging every girl’s dreams, but she never seems to follow the norm with those kinds of things. She kind of loved that about herself.
She never had to worry about being boring, or about pleasing herself, her existence was enough in her book to make her happy, excluding the boyfriends and the lovely food.
She wasn’t driving, and thankful for that because she didn’t really know where to put herself these days, in the ‘bitch’ seat seemed like the first step, but she felt that she knew who she was, without knowing where she was.
David started laughing, his blonde giggle invading the oxygen of the car, flowing through it like psycadelic stars. He was always so beautiful in everything he did, she knew she had some beauty of her own, but none like his, none that would make someone stop and stare and pinch themselves to make sure they weren’t dreaming, that kind of beauty. Afterwards, he stood there, the stars in the wind gone, another joke yet to be forgotten.
David and Clementine’s relationship was slightly strange, she liked him, she had hooked up with him, he was possibly everything a girl could ever ask for, yet he was simply dull. His beauty had made him boring, he never disagreed on anything, he just went along with all of everyone’s bullshit. And bullshit seemed pretty exact when you dealt with people her age. People who thought they had seen the world and were ‘cooler’ than you more ‘wise’ more ‘yoda-eske’ but what they all had, was never anything compared to Clementine or to people who had hidden truths.
She was hungry for life and they weren’t, they were hungry for unimportant and material things, not for life itself.
Next on the other side was Pablo, a French stereotype with a Covergirl wink. Knowing Pablo that little detail would simply make you say ‘Oh Pablo,’ for he was a charmer, but not a accomplished one, he would always just talk about how French he was. His accent was light, but it was there, and he liked that. ‘Dude, I am so pissed that they took Anelka off the team, it’s all these foreign negative externalities that are causing France to lose, cause or else, we would have shown Mexico who was their true mother.’ I whispered ‘I think things are more complex than you think, but I like the economic lingo, it’s a lot more intelligent than 90 percent of the things you have said today, would you like a little gold star?’ She let out a large lip-balmed grin, she was fucking with him, and he hated it, but not at the same time, cause she was the only one who could fuck with him, his ego was far too wide and tall to be fucked with by anyone else.
He was a passionate kisser, a jerk you would carry on your arm, but he was full of secret complexes, like when girls look in the mirror and think their butt is too big, and was always sad that he could never make Clementine happy. It was also kind of the issue at the moment and they didn’t really talk about it because apparently Clementine was too relaxed, mysterious, and independent for things that intermingled with Pablo.
Sometimes Clementine wished she had a wider face, and like a lazy eye so she wouldn’t have to deal with apparently non-homo Abercrombie wannabe models who didn’t have balls. It sounds kind of harsh, but it’s pretty accurate.
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