sunday prompt: extreme

unsurprisingly, he was wild. she always went for the wild. the caged. could see it in his eyes the night she met him. both of them, a tableau of lonely outside the theater, on either side of the entrance, smoking casually.

he wore a stained parka, one of those oversized puff jackets that ostensibly kept one warm in the winter. caused one to look like the michelin man. perched on his head, a lumpy winter hat, black, that somehow looked wrong on him. he wasn't small, but the way he hunched his shoulders and slouched slightly against the brick made him look smaller - younger. she couldn't help but look at him, pretending to look beyond him, at the darkened shopfronts and frosted streets with a variable number of slow-moving headlights. he either didn't care, or didn't notice. she was hoping it was the latter option, preferring to observe clandestinely.

it was going to snow. she could feel it in her left knee, the one damaged in a car accident years ago. a weird throb that felt like a muffled drumbeat and rioted all the way up her thigh and into her pelvis. upon slipping on a patch of ice earlier that evening, she had stumbled and gasped, experiencing a frisson of pain - and then, abruptly, pleasure. the feeling had remained with her the whole walk down to the movie, finally subduing to a grumpy murmur as she purchased her ticket.

he had been in the same cinema as she, sitting just a few rows back. she was in the habit of swivelling her head round to see who was around her. was in the habit of checking for all available exits and entrances. carried with her in her purse a small handbook of survival techniques - mostly for the wilderness, in the woods, but refused to leave the apartment without it. in idle times or waiting in lines, she would pull it out and leaf through the pages, lingering perhaps more on those describing knotwork and cordage. since the car accident she had darkened, slightly, charred around the edges. everyone had noticed but no one had said anything. a few of her good friends moved away and she had as of late been swallowing the bitter fruit of solitude. in an effort to shake it, she went to the movies.

he had sat a few rows back. had entered the theater with no trepidation whatsoever, walked right to a chosen spot and sat. didn't take off his jacket or his hat. the heavy thud of his workboots down the aisle had aroused her interest - or fear - and she had turned, ever so slightly, to watch him. he sat and fixed his eyes on the screen without a flicker of interest. his whole demeanour spoke of anomie. she toyed with the instinct to use the bathroom - or pretend to - just to walk past him and get a better glimpse. he fiddled with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, arranging them in his pockets. kept his hands in as the lights dimmed and the prerequisite admonitions flashed gaudily on the screen. no smoking. turn your cell phones off. no feet on the seats. a few dutiful patrons pulled out their glowing devices and switched them down. he did not. the trailers began.

the movie was terrible. she had felt herself distracted from the predictable and formulaic plot, only drawn in at the gory scenes. it was some horror film. she hadn't even bothered with the name, just saw the picture in the paper: some man's face, distorted and staticky, with lambent eyes. WRAITHE. that was the name of it. it didn't matter. she was only looking to be diverted. had even had a few shots before traipsing down, felt the whiskey burning in her stomach mid-way through the story.

"did you like it?" she asked, abruptly.

he blinked, turned, stared at her. "huh?" his voice was unnaturally high-pitched. she hadn't expected that. the way he walked. he seemed so tough.

"the ... movie."

"oh. uhh. yeah. sure."

"i thought it was shit."

it was like he couldn't speak the language. he blinked at her, uncomprehendingly. "want to get a drink?"

then it was she who experienced brief aphasia, caught in the limbo of inhale & exhale. "sure," she said, exhaling. "where?"

he jerked his head to one side. "round there."

she nodded. reflected briefly on the process of symbols they were using. recycled the notion. "let's go."

he nodded, too, dipping his head just slightly, reached up to fix his hat unsuccessfully, and they walked together, side by side by not at all the same gait. he fell behind almost immediately and she had to correct her stride to match his. he was pulling up the waist of his pants almost constantly, tripping over the cuffs just once. he walked wide, perhaps to compensate, and she almost laughed. "what's your name?" she asked, feeling bolder than usual.

"mal," he replied, turning his head to look at her. she took the opportunity to observe the sides of his face - he was unshaven and the black hairs stuck out short and straight like tiny quills. he was the kind of guy who didn't shave that often, or forgot.

"i'm gretchen," she said without waiting for him to ask. "what do you drink?" the words flew from her like migratory birds with no pattern, helter-skelter across the space between them.

he shrugged. "beer."

she nodded. "do you like whiskey?"

"i'll drink anything." he narrowed his eyes. "you buying?"

she snorted a laugh that sounded more condescending than it was meant. in an effort to mediate, she said - "sure."

they entered a dingy, run-down dive. loosened their tongues further. he sat beside her on a stool - he was carded, she was not - and drank, first in silence. he kept that slouch. halfway through the third round of Bud Light and Jameson, she said - "sit up straight."

he appeared noncommittal. "what are you, my mom?"

she shrugged and looked away. "just a suggestion." when she looked back, he had straightened his spine and sat taller. looked older than he was, with the scurf of mustache, and slight sheen on a malformed goatee. sitting closer to him, she was able to observe the rips and tears on his jacket. he struggled to maintain the pose and looked somewhat defeated when eventually he sank back to his default slouch. she laughed, but kindly this time. "so what do you do, mal?"

"what do you mean?" he countered with all the vim of someone who doesn't do too much.

"for ... work. i don't know. do you make art?"

"i rap," he said, shrugging, casting his gaze down the bar. at the end there were a couple of blonde girls, the kind to which she referred as Frosted Flakes.

"you do. that's something."

"yeah. i guess."

"what else?"

"what do you mean?" he turned back to her, clearly uncomfortable with the interrogation. "what's with all the questions?"

"just curious. can't a girl be curious about a guy?" inwardly, she was horrified by her discourse. she felt freer than usual. a strange sense of cruelty grew inside of her like a weed. took root in her stomach. she slugged the rest of her whiskey down and ordered another. the bartender gave her a glance, but nodded.

mal watched her empty her glass and did the same, pretending that he wasn't trying to catch up or stay in the race. pushed it aside a bit clumsily. it rattled like a warning on the bar. "i work. what about you?"

"me? li'l ol' me?" she slurred slightly. "i work. i rap, too."

he laughed, a mean sound that serrated against his teeth as it made egress from his mouth. "you? sure you do."

she bridled, even though she had lied. "what? you don't think i can?"

his eyes were bright, burnished and seemed slightly fevered. "no. i don't."

"well. i've never been so offended." she turned her back in mock-umbrage, waiting for him to recant. he didn't. eventually, she turned around, when the glass was filled again. "i work in a bookstore. shelve. books. you know."

he shrugged. gulped down some more beer greedily. "sounds boring."

"it ... " she stopped in her defense and mirrored his shrug. "... can be." took a slug of the whiskey. "so. you asked me for a drink. what's your deal?"

"what? can't a guy be curious about a girl?"

her breath snagged in her throat. "oh. clever. very fucking clever. using my own lines against me."

"fair game, in'it it?"

"you were curious about me."

"sure. saw you sitting alone in the movie. thought, what's a good-looking girl like that doing alone at a horror movie?"

"what - a girl can't go see a horror flick alone?"

"you got a boyfriend?"

she was again taken aback by his forcefulness. her eyes lingered, perhaps a bit too long, on the set of his shoulders. wondered what his body looked like underneath all the layers. she reached over and took his hat off. he swiped for it, but missed, and stood up, glaring at her. underneath his hat, his hair stuck up haphazardly, thin in places, uncombed for probably months. possibly unwashed. "it's polite," she said, taking the hat out of his reach, "to take your hat off inside."

he growled at her and sat down, keeping his eyes on her. they almost seemed black. feral. "and no," she replied, setting the hat down on the bar on her left side, away from him. "i don't." picked up the beer bottle by way of punctuation. by way of an airy dismissal.

"are you a lesbian?"

she choked on the sip of beer she had been taking. she'd tried. hadn't done anything. didn't much like girls. their tawdry talk. their squeals and giggles. their neediness. if anything, their neediness is what drove her back into the arms of Brandon, now her ex. he'd taken her back and then dropped her rather unceremoniously on New Year's Eve, twenty-two seconds before the ball did.

"no," she said.

"you look like a lesbian," he said, crassly and out of the corner of his mouth.

"well, you look like a fucking hobo."

"at least i don't munch carpet."

she stood up violently, knocking over her stool with a clatter. "fuck you," she breathed, hands fisting at her sides. "i - " she was dumbfounded. the bartender was standing in front of them. her attention swivelled.

"i'm going to have to ask you to leave, please." the words came from him but she didn't hear them. all the whiskey blinded her as easily as a rainstorm blinds a motorist on the turnpike. she had turned deathly pale, but rummaged through her purse and slammed a wad of bills down on the bar before turning on a heel, snatching up her belongings, and exiting without a word of goodbye.

a block down the street, the tears came. she stumbled, listed, and leaned heavily against a lamppost, sobbing, uncaring who saw. minutes - maybe more - passed, and finally, she regained control of herself, wiping at her eyes, staring blankly at the deserted sidewalk. how was it that no one had stopped, she thought bitterly. the tears had frozen on her face. ''HEY!" she heard, dimly. "HEY YOU!"

she turned, and staggered again, falling heavily against a newspaper stand, flinging out both hands behind her to catch herself. it was mal, running bareheaded down the street after her, cheeks ruddy and stride gangly, one hand at his waist, tugging up his unbelted jeans. "you still have my fucking hat!"

he cut such a ridiculous, comedic figure, puffing and puffy, breathless and ruddy, struggling with his choice of wardrobe, that she burst into a gale of laughter that hurt her way more than it should have. clutching at her sides and her purse, she leaned, twisted, into the newspaper stand, staring at the headline of the last paper available. recognized a name or two. something about the weather. BLIZZARD IN MIDWEST. something something.

mal loped up to her, just as drunk, if not more, and leaned one palm against the lamppost. "give it back. it's fucking cold out."

"you'll have to find it," she said, between fits of giggles. that was when she felt his hands, cold and bare, against her, frenziedly tearing her purse away from her, rifling through it with grunts and snarls like a boar. "not in there," she wheezed, and he threw it from them, attacking her with his hands again. she felt him shove her, tear open her coat. she felt the pain in her knee flare up again and crazily thought it's going to snow and then the rush of winter against her skin. she had shoved it, perhaps without thinking, into the space between her breasts. she could feel the knit of it rubbing against her skin. he was invading her, ripping her, tearing her wholly asunder, and -- she was enjoying it. she was laughing. her neck flew back and her hair flew back and her tears kept coming and she was laughing and he was grunting and it felt so fucking good and yet horrible, awful, terrible, at the same time -

he ripped it out of her and she heard the snick of her bra strap coming undone. it fell off of her, out of her shirt, and landed on one of his boots. the pale pink of it like a newborn baby in the harsh street light. he stood back, stared at her. watched her insanely laughing. "you're a fucking loon," he muttered, but didn't move. perhaps didn't want to kick off the bra from his foot. "jesus christ."

she mumbled something, tried to collect herself, but collapsed in another fit of laughter. it was all boiling inside of her head. forgot to eat today - the horrible imagery of the movie they'd seen together, yet apart - the extreme nature of the moment, jarring and so, so present. him staring at her uncomprehendingly. dully. completely unaware of what to do. she thought of attacking him with her fingernails, with her teeth. of pummelling him. he was slouching again. she could get him - he wasn't bigger than she was. she could take off a heel, stab him in the eye with it. her fists clenched involuntarily, then relaxed. she closed her eyes. breathed.

when she opened them, he was gone. no sight of him. not even a sound. no underbrush rustling. no heavy thud of his tread on the street. a dark, huge sadness spread like an inkblot inside of her. she looked down. her purse was there, ajar, contents spilling out. still no one had walked by.

it wasn't until she stumbled to her front door that she realized - the bastard had taken her bra.

her whooping laughter echoed up and down the street. it sounded like a bird loosed from a cage, bouncing madly from rooftop to rooftop, cascading, intensifying, and finally, fading away.