Angels Losing Sleep

The lucky bastard, he probably won't ever see the inside of a woman's mind the way that he sees it- backwards, inside-out, trecherous and tense, ready to spring like a tightly wound coil that's got claws like a cat and wears lipstick and smells like flowers.

Chelsea grins as his tennis shoes scuff the pavement beneath him. He can hardly feel the cool night air around him- his dim eyes focused ahead of him on the cone of light that spills from a streetlamp.

No, women aren't normal people.

That girl he talks about like she's the Queen of Sheba- he wonders if Sheba is even a country or not. Probably not. Yes, the girl with sandy-brown hair and the legs that go on forever, smooth and tan and achingly touchable. And he gets to touch 'em.

Hah.

Chelsea knows better. Women haven't touched him since he was alive. He bites his lip in frustration at the memory- when was last touched like he mattered. More than a friend. He could barely remember. It had been too long, he knew it, too long since he'd been able to be close enough to someone else to smell their perfume, or... whatever.

He blinks yellow eyes up at the sky, which is blurred. Lucky him, having that girl so close.

He knows that women aren't like that forever. She'll grow bored and she'll peel away and toss herself to another man like a tick. Sucking his blood. Whatever.

Chelsea puts his hand into his pocket- shifting aside the solid bulge of his cell phone and searching for the flimsy, green-papered packet of cigarettes that are never far from him. His lighter is in his rear pocket with his wallet. He retreives it while transferring a cancerstick- hah, dying from cancer, that sounded nice- to his mouth. The flame is bright and sudden when he lights the cigarette, and he blinks in surprise as he always does but inhales dutifully to make sure the light catches.

When was the last time he'd been able to tell-? Oh, that's right.

His farewell from California, that was it- when he'd had to leave that curious-as-hell guy who he'd met at the press conference.

Chelsea grins at the memory of him. Angry little kid- couldn't remember his age but his appearance was detailed in his memory. Red hair, the suggestions of blonde roots twining in with the crimson. He had one eye- just one. The other was patched over. Guy had liked fire. Yeah. He remembered Casey. Remembered Casey and liked him, a lot. Was regretful to say goodbye to him when the time came- he and the other boy had a tight, brief embrace which filled Chelsea's senses with the smell of smoke and singed hair and an attempt to mask the smoky smell with a body spray or something.

Chelsea chuckles out loud, shaking his head. Nothing like a woman.

Casey had his number, didn't he? It was a shame he'd never called. It had been nearly a month.

Chelsea would have if he weren't such a pansy.

Hm.

He feels the cell phone in his pocket- it feels heavy with Casey's number in it. It has felt heavy since he'd gotten the number.

Nah. He would do it some other time.

No, Casey was nothing like a woman, Chelsea knows it. He's angry, boyish, and tough. Too masculine to be feminine. Yet something about that body. Chelsea grins again, wider this time. Oh, God. Casey had that way when he walked that suggested hips beneath layered shirts and those jeans that looked like they'd had a fight with a weed-whacker and lost. His boxers had been pink one day, and Chelsea had laughed at him for it- then had gotten the blunt end of it when Casey had found out that the ones HE'D worn were light purple. Pretty color, he thought.

Chelsea has photos of Casey on his computer. Photography buff that he was. There was that one photo of him that he'd caught without Casey realizing it- the other redhead had been staring off into space, his gray eye unfocused and lazy looking, resting his top teeth onto his bottom lip with an expression of such careless, comatose apathy that Chelsea had deemed it adorable.

Chelsea recalls getting punched -really- hard in the shoulder for it.

Casey. Nothing like a woman. Casey Madison O'Hara.

Made Chelsea laugh every time.


Yeah, that girl might have been something special. She might be beautiful and gentle and have those womanly hips and curves and be motherly and wonderful like women should be, but... y'know. Unattainable.


Chelsea stops walking and holds the cigarette between his teeth as he digs into his pocket for his cell phone, flipping it open and searching through his contacts.

'Casey'

'Send message'

He removes his cigarette from his mouth so he can bite his lip. Yes or no.

Yes or no.

'hey. remember me?'

'Send'

Sent.

He put his phone back into his pocket. There. Now an attempt had been made. Chelsea started walking again, frowning up at the sky and blowing smoke from his mouth as he did so.

Things could be worse, he supposed. Sure, he was a 19-year-old virgin whose romantic capabilities stretched to probably the end of the street block. It could be worse, yeah. He could be dea-

Oh.


Chelsea scowls. It isn't fair.

(CaseyCaseyCaseyCaseyCaseyCasey)

But what can he do? Not a lot. Hm. No, nothing at all, in fact. He's tried being with women and it hasn't worked and he's tried being permanantly single and it sucks. Nothing like a woman. He's cheated death and traveled and taken up smoking and photography and he's gotten a job here and it's better than Wisconsin but it still sucks.

He feels like someone's punching him in the throat.

It feels like that for a while.

The relentless fist suddenly recoils in fear as he feels his pocket vibrate- his eyes widen and he immediately fumbles for it, nearly biting his cigarette in half as he flips it open.

'New message from Casey'

Open.

'OMG U TOOL Y DID U WAIT SO LONG TO TXT ME U AHOLE'


Chelsea grins.

Maybe it doesn't -all- suck.

Then he laughs.

No.
Nothing like a woman.