Chrissy is stunning in a little black dress that hugs her hips and perfectly accentuates her hourglass shape. It’s tight in all the right places and dangerously short, even on her small frame.I can’t help but notice that her chest looksfantastic, my eyes lingering more than once on her natural gifts. I’m sure she knew exactly what she was doing, choosing a dress with a cut like that. I doubt it was as much for me as it was for her, but I’m grateful nonetheless.
The golden cross adorning her neck flickers in the low lamplight every time she laughs, and I can’t help but find it ironic she chose it, despite dressing like she’s planning to commit some sins. I wonder if she’s truly devout or just wants to appear more virtuous.
Still, it’s clear she spent a lot of time getting ready, and I feel out of place sitting next to her. Now I really regret not taking the time to trim my beard. At least she didn’t run for the hills when she saw me, so that’s a good sign.
“Your favorite song?” Chrissy asks, continuing our game of questions. We’ve gone back and forth throughout the evening, pulling out bits of trivia about each other this way, making it feel more natural.
“Bohemian Rhapsody,” I reply instantly. “No contest.”
Chrissy nods. “Oh, that’s a good one.”
“What about yours?”
“You’re going to laugh at me.” She pouts, biting her bottom lip.
“I swear I won’t.”
“My Bloody Valentine,” she grumbles.
I recoil slightly, not at all expecting that. “Wait. You mean like Good Charlotte?”
“The one and only.”
“Oh, my god. Were you ascenekid?”
Chrissy scoffs. “Hey! You said you wouldn’t laugh!”
“I’m not laughing!” I’m totally laughing, but I can’t help it. I’m struggling to picture this beautiful girl wearing nothing but black and pink, all skinny jeans and puffed-up hair, taking ridiculousselfies with her tongue out while listening to overly dramatic emo music.
“I ate that shit up.” Chrissy smiles dreamily. “Good Charlotte, Taking Back Sunday, My Chemical Romance, Paramore, Bring Me the Horizon… They don’t make music like that anymore.”
“Do you have any pictures? I can’t go on living without seeing this.”
Chrissy smiles, pulling out her cell phone. She spends a few minutes searching through her Facebook before finding a group of photos of the look in question, then passes the phone to me. Sure enough, there’s a little Chrissy wearing, black pre-ripped skinny jeans and a Paramore T-shirt with a studded leather belt and Converse. Her hair is black with strips of neon pink thrown in, styled in the typical scene fashion—swooped bangs with intense volume up top and pin-straight length. Her eyes are covered with so much makeup that it’s hard to see what she looks like underneath. And she’s making the same face I remember seeing every girl make back in the early 2000s.
“You really were a scene kid!” I say affectionately. “How cute.”
“It was the highlight of my youth.” Chrissy takes her phone back. “I miss it sometimes. Never grew out of the music, though. I still listen to it religiously. I’m guessing you were a jock?”
“Far from it.” I snort. “Band geek.”
“Seriously?” Now it’s Chrissy’s turn to laugh.
“Oh yeah. I played—”
“No, wait! Let me guess,” Chrissy jumps up excitedly. “Trombone. No, wait. Trumpet!”
“Flute.” I chuckle.
Chrissy’s jaw drops in awe. “Okay. I don’t think I could have guessed that in a million years. You don’t give off flute vibes.”
My lips twitch. “Why? Because I’m built more like a football player?”
“I mean, kinda?” She winces, biting her lower lip with a guilty smile.
“I was a twig in high school. Scrawny as shit.”
“Nuh-uh,” Chrissy protests. “Now I have to see.”
