Conor

Midnight. February 15, 2001.

She smiles at me from across the living room, looking at me like she isn't sure why I'm there.

And so it begins.

I'm standing off to the side in a corner when her eyes find me. Her bright pink lips curl into a smile before parting. She looks up at the guy standing next to her, says something to him, and shakes him off of her arm before beginning her journey towards my place of isolation.

I look down into my red cup, dread rising in my stomach.

I don't particularly want to be spoken to. I'd be perfectly content to just stay here like this, by myself, watching the snow fall outside the window as the cheap beer I'm drinking does its part in thawing out my insides.

Yeah, yeah, — I know that totally defeats the purpose of a party. I've heard it all before.

But this girl doesn't know that, with her tight-lipped smile and her white-blonde hair, shining bright beneath the dim light.

For whatever reason, it's clear that she's got her mind set on me.

No matter how close she's getting, I don't offer to run.

She's plenty close right now, showing no signs of making a detour towards a vacant bathroom or a better looking guy.

She stops right here. In my corner.

With me.

Cautiously, I lift my eyes from the bubbling warm beer in my hand. Unlike most of the people at this party for artsy, loser types, she's extremely attractive, — and conventionally so.

That does even more in the way of scaring me shitless.

What could this girl, — and her laughing blue eyes and perfectly smooth skin, — possibly want to do with me?

She parts her painted lips to speak.

"Hey, kid," she says. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be at home with your mama?"

She smiles a wide smile, revealing a row of teeth that are, to my surprise, rather crooked. "This party is for big boys, you know."

My stomach turns. I tighten my grip on my cup within my sweaty palm. Though I know that I'll most likely puke before the end of the night, I do not want it to be now, only halfway into my first drink.

"Actually," I say, hating the quaver of my own voice, "I just now turned twenty-one."

She stares at me, arms crossed over her chest, incredulous.

She doesn't believe me. That's nothing new, but I still despise it.

Assuming that I live that long, I'll be questioned for my admission into the retirement home.

"Really?" The two-syllable word falls from her mouth, slow, like she really is speaking to a child.

"Really," I confirm. I focus on convincing my body not to shake.

Jesus, Conor. Get a grip. She's just a bitchy girl. You dealt with plenty of those in high school... which was, in fact, years ago.

But my will feels so fragile with her icy eyes fixed on me, seeming to question every atom of my being. "Can you prove it?" she challenges.

"Yeah, actually." I switch my beer to my other hand, diggimg for the wallet in my pocket. I retrieve my driver's license and hand it to her. "See?"

She stays silent for a while, appraising my ID. Her eyes move over it as she reads it once, maybe twice, selected portions of my identity laid out for her to read, — full name, eye color, height, address. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling unreasonably vulnerable.

Meanwhile, the girl is squinting, holding my license up to the light. Apparently, this is the final test; looking pleased, she passes it back to me.

"Well, I'll be damned," she says. "Guess you technically did..." She casts her gaze towards the clock on the wall before turning back to me, that sly smile returning. "If you were born within the first fifteen minutes after midnight, that is."

I shrug, tucking my license back into its safe place. "You'd have to get ahold of my birth certificate in order to be privy to that information."

She laughs, a sound as pretty as her face. It's sort of infuriating.

The scent of her perfume washes over me as she leans back against the wall, the warm skin of her arm pressing against mine. The contact is sudden, unsolicited, but I don't try to distance myself from her.

The last time I was this close to a girl, it wasn't long before I  was inside of her. The next morning, she was gone.

I didn't see her again after that.

I try not to think about this, — loneliness is a horribly addictive drug. Instead, I turn to look at this girl in the here and now, close enough for me to examine the visible facets of her identity, just as she examined mine.

Her hair is long and straight, as pale as the moonlight that shines through the window to illuminate it, pulled back at her thin white neck. Her eyes are light, but dusted with dark makeup, as if she wants to hide the fact that her existence itself bursts with life. Her body shines, wrapped in some tight pink number that screams lookatmelookatmelookatme.

I am looking, and, maybe due to my already foul mood, I'm not quite sure how to feel about that.

The girl casts her light eyes upwards to meet mine. Her lips part, revealing those crooked teeth again. Even this youthful imperfection looks smug on her, — like she was above the painfully awkward stage of braces, so she just skipped over it.

"Aw, come on, Conor Mullen Oberst," she says. I flinch at the fact that she felt compelled to say my full name, as listed on my ID, — it seems alien, intimate. "Why do you look so blue?"

I sigh, straightening my spine. "Don't know," I reply. "Maybe because it's my birthday, and this past year didn't meet any of my standards." I meet her eyes again. "That's pretty disappointing, because who knows how long they've got, anyway?"

Her imperfect teeth disappear behind her perfect lips again. She stays quiet for a while, probably thinking about what a pathetically depressing bastard stands beside her.

Just as soon as her smile faded, she perks up again.

She grabs ahold of my arm. "Come on, Conor," she says, her speech slow again, — this time in a way that seems oddly encouraging, rather than condescending. Encouraging. She tugs at my sleeve. "I am going to buy you your first drink."

Pointedly, I look back down at my Solo cup. "Um... Well... I've been drinking for a while..."

She shakes her head, hopefully causing at least one overly manicured strand of hair to fall loose. "Your first legal drink, then."

I stop, stare at her.

White hair. Blue eyes. Snaggleteeth. Anticipation, making the air around us hum with something I'm certain nobody else at this party can feel.

Except maybe her.

I blow out a sigh, hoping not to seem too eager. "Fine," I agree. "But first, I need your name."

Something to remember her by.

She nods. "Summer Dawn Stevens," she says quickly. "Now, come on." She takes my beer from me, then takes me by the hand.

With that, she pulls me out into the biting cold of a Midwestern winter's night, pouring the remainder of my drink into the grass on our way to hail a cab.

And that's how it starts.

🖤

Summer

This is how it starts.

The clock strikes midnight. Valentine's Day is officially over. Cinderella is set free.

I blow off my current Prince Charming, — some gangly chainsmoker by the name of Chad.

Even as I look up at him, faking adoration with fluttering eyelashes, I despise him.

He thinks he's so much more brilliant than he truly is. He eats, sleeps, breathes, sweats, cries, and bleeds pretension.

I spent a whole week in his musty apartment, lounging with my legs seductively thrown over the edge of the sofa. Periodically, he popped his greasy blonde head from behind the canvas, tugging at his cigarette contemplatively each time before flashing me a thumbs up and returning to work.

As he smoked and painted and my legs cramped up, I developed high hopes for the end product. When he handed me back my robe and turned the painting around last night, however, those hopes were immediately dashed.

It was godawful, — not even quality enough to hang in one of the kitschy local restaurants for patrons to stare atuntil, they lose their appetites. I could just barely recognize my own naked form, — and when I did, I was kind of ashamed of it.

No way did I want people to see that lopsided, sloppy mess and assume it was in any way an accurate depiction of what I looked like under my clothes, artistic license or no.

That said, when I find my ticket out of our partnership in the form of a skinny, miserable-looking dark-haired boy, I jump at my chance to unlatch Chad from me.

"Hold on," I tell him, keeping that sultry tone I am always sure to use on my artists. "I think I see somebody I know."

Chad nods, releasing me.

Gullible bastard.

I smile and turn on my heel, knowing I'll never bother looking back at him again.

Au revoir, Chad. Good luck finding another girl to pose for your shitty paintings.

Though it'd likely be wise to embrace my time as a newly-free woman, I immediately find myself making my way towards the sullen boy in the corner. He stands, looking from his drink to his Converse and back.

He's pretty. He seems at least slightly mysterious.

He looks inwardly tortured.

He's my next artist. I'm sure of it.

And so I sidle right up to him, teasing and flirting, hoping to pique his interest just as he has piqued mine.

For the most part, he seems uninspired at best, frightened at worst. Luckily for me, however, he seems too lethargic to flee, staying slumped against the wall.

I continue to prod him, harping on his age, — he's got the perfect cherubic face for that method. Finally, he decides to bite, taking out his wallet to proudly display his seemingly real ID to me.

His license states that he is Conor Mullen Oberst, 5"9, brown-haired and brown-eyed. Lives smackdab in the middle of Omaha. Born on this day, twenty-one years ago.

There's my in.

I'll be damned.

So I take this sad puppy of a boy outside to hail a cab with me, holding onto his clammy hand with the one of my own that I am not using to wave down a taxi. When the cab stops, I pull him into the backseat with me and direct the driver to the shabby but vaguely artsy bar downtown. The one that has at least two representations of my likeness hung on the walls.

He seems comfortable when the two of us step through the door, like he's been here before. I lead him to a table beneath a watercolor of a blonde woman, sporting somewhat abstract bare breasts. I glance at the frame smiling.

Brad did that one.

That guy was alright.

When the waiter comes to attend to us, he cards Conor, and I order two tall, cool lagers, as well as an apple pie for the two of us to share, with a scoop of French vanilla ice cream on the side. Conor nods along, seemingly approving of my choices.

Once the waiter is gone, I point towards the picture frame.

"See that?" I ask.

Conor nods. "Yeah."

"That's me."

He pauses, leaning in to look at the glass-enclosed painting. He tilts his head to the side, examining it closely. He looks back at me, seeming to judge my authenticity.

I just smile sweetly, hoping that I look trustworthy. "It's true." I prop my elbows up on the sticky surface of the table before stage-whispering my confession of identity to him.

"Conor. I am a nude art model."

For a while, he sits and stares at me.

Awkward. He is so very awkward.

This observation is only solidified as his face flushes bright pink. He averts his eyes from my face to the table.

"Well," he mutters. "I'm a musician."

My heart drops.

He's an artist, yes. Just not the kind that I was hoping for.

That said, I'm already buying the boy his first legal alcoholic beverage. I might as well make the most of it.

"Really?" I ask. "Would I know anything you've done?"

"Maybe." He shrugs, rubbing his thumb over something that someone carved into the table. "I've played in lots of bands...  Park Ave. Desparecidos. Bright Eyes..." He stops, seeming to deeply consider something.

The waiter comes back and places our drinks in front of us.

Conor picks up his mug and takes a long hearty sip. When he places it back down, his demeanor changes, — he doesn't seem quite so stiff anymore, his shoulders not so hunched, his eyes not so full of sorrow. He almost looks relaxed.

"Damn." I laugh, taking a sip of my own beverage. "You weren't kidding about having been a drinker for a while. You look like an old pro."

He looks up from the table, eyes connecting with mine before he lifts one finger to his lips. "Shhh," he says. "The waiter might be listening."

Simultaneously, we burst into a quiet fit of giggles. With that, the awkwardness between us  begins to slide down and melts away like the condensation on our drinks.

Over the course of the next hour, I have two beers. He has three.

We both do our part in putting away the pie and ice cream as we lightly discuss our backgrounds, in none too much detail.

We don't talk family, money, or romantic conquests. Mostly, it's about our careers, — seemingly, the most defining aspect of both our lives.

He's written songs and played guitar almost all his life. I've used my body to my own advantage since the seventh grade, when I first noticed the paperboy riding past my house multiple times a day as I lay tanning in my swimsuit.

"But don't let that fool you." I wave my finger at him sternly. "I mean, so what if every artistic guy in the city might have seen me naked? I can play hard-to-get with the best of them."

Once again, Conor gets quiet. This time, he takes in my real face and body as he seems to mull over whether or not such a statement could be true.

I can't read him well enough to know what conclusion he comes to. All I know is that he's turning red again.

An hour and a half after we walked into the bar, Supersonic's "Closing Time" crackles over the radio, signaling in universal bar-language that it's time to wrap everything up.

A look of disgust washes over Conor's face as he looks up at the ceiling. "I fucking hate this song."

"Me, too." I reach for my purse, placing our total plus change into the check that the waiter has long since brought to us. "Let's go ahead and get out of here, before it runs this beautiful evening."

With that, the two of us venture back out into the night.

We walk up the street, side by side. We're quiet as we listen to the bits and pieces of our fellow nightowls' conversations as they pass us by, punctuated by the sound of tires upon the road. I cast a sneaky glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

He's cute enough, with his shaggy brown hair and his perpetually-frowning mouth.

If only he painted.

Suddenly, he staggers to a halt. He looks at me, his expression suddenly looking oddly guilty. "Excuse me for a second."

And then I'm watching Conor Mullen Oberst trip into a side alley, falling to his knees as he retches.

On autopilot, I kneel behind him, pulling stray strands of dark hair from his face.

Then he stops.

We go back to the silence as we sit motionless for a while. Now I'm the one feeling awkward and guilty.

He only had three drinks, and he threw up.

Great.

That's my fault.

A cool breeze passes through, ruffling my hair. I think I see him shiver.

Racking my brain for what might comfort me if I were in his shoes right now, I tentatively place a hand against his back, rubbing gently.

"Conor?" I whisper.

With that, he jerks upright, stumbling over himself as he stands. "It's alright," he says. "I do that a lot."

He turns around, wiping at his mouth. "I'd better get a cab back home."

I stand back up, watching him carefully. "Are you sure?" I ask. "Do you need to see a doct-"

"No," he says forcefully. "I'm fine, Summer. Really. I'm gonna go." He turns away from me as the sound of wheels on pavement approaches again. "In fact, there's a cab."

I watch without a word as Conor waves down the taxi, climbs into the car, and pays his fare, leaving me alone as he takes off into the night.

I stand, hugging myself as the cold bites at my skin. Though I know I really shouldn't, I feel sort of abandoned as I wait for the next yellow cab to drive past.

This is how it starts.

I'm pretty sure this is how it ends, too.