16 comments/ 63863 views/ 15 favorites Home By Eight By: Lothario the Great The day ended much as it began, with Martin Floyd sitting on the curb outside his home, staring into space like an idiot, completely alone. Friday morning he sat waiting for Jack Lowery to pick him up, thinking about how he'd survive the humiliation of missing senior prom. Part of him knew no one would notice if he went to the prom or not, because he was a cypher flying under the social radar -- or rather, part of him knew that his life was a personal humiliation to everyone who'd made an investment in him, and missing the prom would be no less or greater a humiliation than the rest of his failures -- but Martin struggled with that narcissistic-slash-self-pity complex that so many lost teenagers enjoy, and it was this warped social creature that sat trying to figure out how to get into the prom. With a date, of course. He had until the end of the school day to find a date for that night. Yes, that same night. Looked like nachos and X-Box awaited him for the twentieth evening in a row. Jack picked Martin up five minutes after first period had started, and they drove to school without a word. Jack's mom knew Martin's mom, and the two women agreed that Jack and Martin could carpool together, with Martin paying for Jack's gas. All the gas, a full tank anytime Jack needed it, not just what was used to get Martin to school, out of Martin's pocket. Jesus. Every morning, Jack would stop a block from school, kick Martin out, then drive into the parking lot alone. On mornings when Jack was late, Martin was extraordinarily late. For this, and for his cool-ass name, Martin truly hated Jack. "Martin, Jesus Christ." These words, spoken by Martin's homeroom teacher, were the first human sounds he'd heard all morning. In Martin's home, no one ate breakfast together, no one passed in the wide halls of the large house, no one listened to music or talk radio. Nothing, no words. Now that he'd been griped out by his teacher, he could safely bet that no one would speak to him again throughout the day. After second period, Martin stood in front of his open locker, pretending to look for something. If he closed the locker too quickly, he'd be the first to third period, and he'd sit alone with no one to talk to. Fuck that. "Cut it out, asshole." A girl down the hall was arguing with someone. No, not just a girl. The girl, Cindy Le Smythe, she of the perfect blonde hair, perfectly ironed cheerleading outfit, perfect knots on her sneakers. Hell, even her Anglo-Whatever name was perfect. Believe it or not, Martin had very little use for her. Those in the lower social echelons knew better than to box above their weight, and Martin only liked to fantasize about girls who had been nice to him at some point -- those with a friendly wave, a kind question, some sort of human contact. Never had Cindy connected with Martin, and never would she. In a way, she was as much a cypher to Martin as he was to everyone else. Still, there's no way to keep from knowing the celebrities in your town. "Cindy, I swear to god, you better not push me again," said Doug What's-his-name, starting first-string whatever and Cindy's obligatory homecoming king boyfriend. A fellow jock laughed at Doug's unfunny comments. Cindy had a cheerleading cohort standing nearby, waiting with books in hand. "Then don't shove your books up my skirt," Cindy shouted shrilly. Doug said, "Chill out, bitch. I'm just peeking at your bloomers. Nothing I haven't seen before." He grabbed the edge of her ridiculously short skirt. Cindy pushed Doug hard in the chest. "I said cut it out! You ass face!" "Goddamn, what is your problem!" Doug cried. "Is it that time of the month already?" "Fuck you! Take your sister to the prom." Cindy turned and walked in Martin's direction. Doug followed her. "Oh no way, bitch. Don't even kid. I'll drop you like a punt kick." Cindy responded, "You aren't dropping nothing, Doug. Fuck the prom, fuck you." Cindy's fellow cheerleader, the redhead Theresa with the too-large calves, shrieked in protest. "Cindy, you CAN'T not go to the prom! You'll ruin everything. We got the hotel rooms." "Forget this," Doug said. "I'm outta here. Take that nerd, for all I care." He waved a dismissive hand at Martin as he walked away. Cindy looked at Martin, and suddenly the world was a very strange and uncomfortable place to be. Cindy barely seemed to see him at all, and Martin could feel the dismissal that didn't even approach contempt, washing over him like a crashing wave, or an angry drink in the face. Did he hate her for it? How much hate did he have left inside of him? Wasn't there someone in the entire suburban school district who would reach out to him? In those stupid Eighties teen movies, there was always that slightly unpopular girl who took the nerd under her wing and taught him about life and music and dancing, and the nerd turned out to not be such a bad guy. In real life, the nerd was a reclusive wallflower who would never make the first move, and the resentment building inside that nerd pushed against the soul like a fissure in a river dam. When the dam burst, the results were unexpected to say the least. "Hey Cindy," Martin said on a whim. "You wanna go to the prom?" Cindy did a double-take before she finally saw who was speaking to her. There stood Martin, stewing in his own emotional juices, trying for once to look like a normal human being, trying to make a connection to mankind. And for what? Perhaps he was trying to invoke an emotion within himself, maybe fear or embarrassment. But nothing came. Theresa looked at Martin with melodramatic disgust. His clothes were basic t-shirt and jeans, ratty shoes, nothing eye-catching. But Cindy did not look disgusted. Martin, not one who knew how to read body language, worked his mind to figure out why she hadn't spit on him yet. "Why me?" Cindy asked. Martin shrugged. "I don't have a date, and now you don't either. It's fate." "Oh really," Cindy replied. Her response was sarcastic, but her eyes were not. "Well if it's fate, then I guess I have to be your date." "Cindy!" Theresa shrieked. Shrieking was the only sound Theresa made. "What the heck are you doing?" "Theresa, chill out, okay? God." Cindy looked back at Martin, about to speak, but no words came. She looked him up and down. What did she see? She finally asked, "What's your name?" Oh fucking A, she didn't even know his name. Well NOW he felt embarrassed. "Martin," he said. "Floyd." "Which is it?" Cindy asked. "Martin Floyd," he said. "Floyd's my last name." "Oh FUCK," Theresa said with amused disbelief. "Cindy, let's go." The cheerleaders disappeared down the hall. Cindy did not look back. Martin went to class, laughing and shaking his head, or at least thinking about how he'd laugh and shake his head if he ever wanted to make any movement that actually drew attention. During third hour, he stared at the blackboard and thought about what a bullet he had dodged. What if she'd really said yes? Nothing could be more miserable. Once the incident was deleted from his memory, Martin spent the remainder of the day gratefully following his mindless routine. After school, Martin walked down the block toward Jack's car. Suddenly, a BMW slammed to a halt beside him. Cindy sat in the driver's seat. "I accept," she said. Martin was at a loss for words. "Accept what?" "You're my date tonight. Do you have a tux?" Martin's fingers dug into the strap of his backpack. He felt a bit dizzy. "Uh, no. I don't have anything." "What, are you walking home or something?" Martin saw Jack looking through the back window of his car. What the hell would he be thinking? "Sort of," Martin answered. "Do you have money?" "Yeah," Martin said. Money was not a problem for his family, but permission to drive certainly was. What a bunch of tight-asses. No time to dwell on that now -- lofty events were in the air. "Get in." Thoughts flashed through poor little Martin's mind with maelstrom speed, but there was no time at all for thinking. There sat Cindy, head cheerleader, arm casually draped over the seat of her Beemer, waiting for him to get in so he could take her to the Jesus H. Christ senior friggin' prom. What was left to decide? He opened the door and sat in the passenger seat. As Cindy drove past Jack, Martin waved hello. The look on Jack's face was one of unqualified astonishment. Martin hoped he himself didn't have the same look. "You're cute," Cindy said as she took a neighborhood turn too fast. Soon she was on the urban thoroughfare, gaining speed, unimpressed by the yellow traffic lights. "We're going to cut your hair first, okay?" Cindy invited no debate as she pulled into an expensive looking salon. She went to the counter and politely begged the cashier girl to put Martin in the chair right away, as he was taking her to the prom in less than four hours. The stylists and patrons started gossiping and congratulating the boy, offering several opinions about what could be done with his unimpressive hair helmet. But Cindy quickly took control -- as was her wont, Martin noted -- dictating the length of the bangs (and sideburns, for fuck's sake -- that made him nervous), the clipper settings, even how to thin it out. She wanted to see some dark red highlights against his brown locks, but there was simply no time. She had him shampooed and groomed -- everything but the collar -- and then they were off. Next they stopped at the tuxedo rental store. Cindy talked to the salesman as though Martin weren't even there, or as though he were a mannequin being prepared for the storefront. Most of the tuxedos his size were already gone, and the only ones that remained were the high-dollar ones with pearl buttons and other upper-class accents. Cindy instructed him to pay without thinking about the cost, and he was comfortable with that. His wish had been fulfilled, and he was grateful. Besides, who needed another cartridge for his game system? He might get laid tonight, after all. After the sales guy measured Martin -- as Cindy looked on dispassionately, odd sensation that -- Cindy thanked the fellow and beckoned Martin to follow her to the car. "I have to get ready," she informed Martin. "Hair, makeup, push-up bra, all the fun stuff. You'll drop me off, then take my car back to pick up the tuxedo. The alterations should be done by then. Get extra cash for dinner, and pick up some condoms. I'm not going to my senior prom without getting fucked. And don't touch your hair, I mean it. I want you to pick up a bright pink corsage at the supermarket. Go to as many as you have to until you find one. Be at my house at 5:00. I want to eat and be at the dance by 6:30. Now, repeat that back to me." Martin's palms went cold. "You… you'll get dropped off, I'll get the tuxedo and… and condoms, and a bright pink corsage, then come back to get you by five." "And don't touch your fucking hair, asshole." "Yes, thank you, I got it," Martin snapped, or whatever counted for a snap in his passive-aggressive world. He didn't want to piss off the girl he was going to make love to in a few hours. Cindy pulled into her driveway (her house was smaller than Martin's -- why the hell didn't he have a car?). Martin got in the driver's seat and backed the Beemer into the street. Thank goodness for automatic transmission. He ran his errands in a befuddled haze. What had just happened? The whole scenario seemed like a fairy tale, where the peasant wins the hand of the princess. But something wasn't right. He didn't know enough about how people dealt with each other to know what was wrong with Cindy's behavior, but everything he'd learned from television told him that things were progressing nicely. He'd run on instinct, he decided, until a more definite warning light came on. Why not give the head cheerleader the benefit of the doubt? Maybe she genuinely liked him. Wouldn't that be a pleasant surprise. Martin put on the tuxedo when he got to the store; the time was 4:35. After he had it on, he looked at himself in the mirror. He'd never worn a suit, let alone a tie or all the other stuff. He didn't recognize the person he saw, and for that he was profoundly grateful. He simply looked fantastic, just the way he always fantasized. Maybe he really did deserve to go to the prom. Martin left his clothes and books in a locker in the back; he'd pick them up when he returned the tux. Wearing the tux, he went into the Mobil station at the corner of Cindy's neighborhood. He picked up the rubbers and tossed them on the counter; he tried to act non-chalant, but he threw them too hard, and one of the two packs flew off the counter. The cashier picked it up and looked at him, annoyed. This is the point where this guy would announce to the other customers what I'm buying, Martin thought with horror. But the guy took his money without a word, and Martin sprinted to his car, with his purchase hidden in his pocket. He put the rubbers in the glove box. As he drove to Cindy's house, he kept looking at the glove box, as though terrorists had wired a bomb in there, set to explode at any minute. There was no rationale behind such thoughts; he was just damn nervous. When he pulled up to the house, he saw a red Mustang in the driveway, so he parked on the street. Martin took the corsage with him to the front door and rang the bell. Doug, the football player, opened the door. He wore a tuxedo. "Oh HELL no." With no warning, Doug sucker-punched Martin in the gut. Martin doubled-over on the porch, crouched on his haunches, trying not to lie down in the umpteen-dollar tux. Martin saw past Doug into the living room. There sat Cindy on the sofa, looking bored. A woman who must have been her mother stood shaking her head, a hand over her mouth. Next to Doug stood another man, Cindy's father. "Now Doug, don't be a dickhead," the father said. "Cindy's made her choice, and that's final. Now go on to the prom, and she'll see you there." Doug cracked his knuckles as he stepped past Martin. Neither he nor the old man seemed to notice Martin on the ground, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly Martin realized what part of the puzzle he had missed, or simply looked past -- Cindy had dropped her prom date the day of the event, but the guy still existed. What was it about Martin that kept him from seeing how people really were? "Oh dear," the mother said, rushing to Martin to help him stand. "I'm Mrs. Le Smythe, Cindy's mother." "Mar… Martin Floyd." His diaphragm was sore. Cindy stood and approached him. She looked him up and down, then straightened his tie, ran her fingers through the new bangs in his hair. "You look good," she said with a smile, then she kissed him on the cheek. Martin realized with a shudder that this was the first time he'd ever seen her smile, for any reason. She was, in a nutshell, the most beautiful girl Martin had ever seen in person. Any girl could look beautiful with the right beauty products, Martin had always believed, but his theory seemed a bit hollow as he looked at Cindy. Could anyone but the head cheerleader fill out this particular dress so dramatically? She glowed like a perpetual firework in her sequined pink dress with the spaghetti straps, and she held a tiny hand purse to match. Her regal hair rose in waves like an elaborate seashell. Was she really going to fuck HIM? Instantly he realized he hadn't told his parents he was going to the prom. They'd been hounding him about it for weeks. Oh well, screw them. The four of them walked out to the car. Cindy's father shook Martin's hand as they walked, barely looking at him at all. He stared at Cindy with a genuine possessiveness, innocent enough for a father watching his most prized possession being taken from him. Only an idiot didn't know what the prom was for. Cindy's mother cocked her head as Martin held the passenger door open for Cindy. "Martin dear," she asked, "is this… Cindy's car?" "Mine's in the shop," Martin answered reactively. Why lie? But he sure had. Martin pulled away from the curb. Cindy said, "Faster," then continued to look out the window. Martin stepped as hard on the gas as he comfortably could. "You lied to my mother, you fuckwad," Cindy said without emotion. "Sorry," Martin said. "I felt a bit weird back there, especially in the gut area." "Well, get over it. I want to have fun tonight. Please put your insecurities somewhere I can't see them." Without knowing where he was going, Martin headed for the downtown area of the nearby metropolis. "Where do you want to eat?" he asked. "I'm not hungry," Cindy said. "Let's fuck." "Okay," Martin said. Because really, what more could he say. "Go to the Ritz Carlton. I have a room. Are you a virgin?" The steering wheel went wet in Martin's hands. "Define virgin," he said. "Well, what have you done with a girl?" "Nothing at all," he heard himself say, not consciously deciding to say it. Dumbass. "Mm-hmm," Cindy muttered. She stared out the window yet again. Would she ever look at him for the rest of the night? They parked and went up the elevator to the lobby, then found another elevator to the main floors. Cindy already had the key, so they went straight to the room. The sun was still up, so she left the lights off and opened the shades. "I'll wanna be on top so I don't mess up my hair," she said. "If that's alright." Martin nodded. Cindy pressed her palm against the window glass and looked out. She sure did like windows, Martin thought, but there was no denying the beauty of the view from this altitude, a vast concrete landscape scarred by gashes of greenery where the parks cut into the ground. In many ways, Martin preferred this view of humanity to any other, the view in which buildings seemed to have always existed, independent of the messy humans who hid within them. This, this night, this right here, this girl, this was why he hid. He had a bad taste in his mouth. But then Cindy said, "Take off your clothes." Instantly, Martin's emotions became confused again. What choice did he have? Martin took off the tux and carefully laid it on the dresser. Soon he stood in his white briefs. And still Cindy did not turn to see him. "Unzip my dress." The zipper pulled smoothly down her spine, and just like that, he was looking at her black bra and bare skin. She didn't make a move, but only continued to lean against the glass. Martin felt something visceral compel him to push the straps off her strong shoulders. Cindy moved her arm from the glass, and the dress fell to the floor like a feather. Nothing seemed real. He knew he should pull her to him, like they do in the movies, followed by a wonderful time of giving into his carnal motives. But emotions spun inside him like shades of paint melding together in a bucket, and he didn't know what color would be the result. Cindy stood like a goddess before him, a statue of muscle and toned flesh in black panties and high heels, a perfect example of the perfection of womanhood in the modern world. And yet, she seemed sad, for Martin knew not what other word to describe the apathy he saw in her, and that made him sad for her. Whatever else she was tonight -- popular icon, manipulating harlot -- she had very recently been a confused innocent kid with wrong ideas about how the world worked, just as he had been, or still was. Martin turned the girl with smooth, gentle force so that she faced him. She did not protest. When he kissed her, she felt hard as steel against him. He had a new purpose, however, to melt her down to her base emotions for only a few hours, to make her feel that young innocence she had known before they met. Cindy responded to the softness of his kiss, to the patient caress of his hands on her sides. Home By Eight Whether or not he made a legitimate emotional connection might never be known, but there was no denying Cindy responded instantly to him physically. She held him tightly around the waist, passionately, with a femininity utterly foreign to the lonely boy kissing her. Martin moved his lips down her cheek to her chin, then down her neck, pressing his hot tongue against her flesh as he moved, the way Brit had taught him that one summer in junior high. In a naïve way he thought of all the "moves" he wanted to try out tonight. "Ohh," Cindy moaned, encouraging him on. She reached behind and unhooked her strapless bra. Martin did not even notice it fall to the floor. All he knew was that he now saw his first pair of breasts, staring at him in all their stark, soft, round reality. Martin fell to his knees to put his face in her chest; she was too tall, so he unbuckled the tiny straps of her heels and slipped them off her feet. As he knelt, he stared hard at the black lace thong covering Cindy's crotch. He was fascinated by it all -- the thinness of the fancy material, the tiny straps wrapping around her flawless hips, the smoothness of her skin and the firmness of her tummy. He'd done nothing to deserve such perfection, so he spent one last moment marveling at the fluke and put such self-depreciating thoughts aside for the remainder of the hotel visit. So slowly did he touch the panties, so apprehensively did he pull the material down over her hips, that Cindy began to breathe hard. She put her hands on Martin's shoulders and gripped tightly. Martin did not mean to tease her; it's just that a part of him didn't actually believe he had permission to perform such a sacred act. As the silk descended to uncover Cindy's soft, curved mound of pelvic flesh, completely bald, Martin regained that center of animal lust that lives in all men, and he was finally in the right frame of mind for some good hard sex. Cindy knelt as well, and she kissed Martin on the lips again. Her tongue slipped inside his lips, and she lashed at his dry mouth with expert skill. He felt her probing him, moving over his slick teeth, inspecting the roof and gums, wetting him with her moist, hot breath and warm saliva. Martin lifted his hands to Cindy's breasts and fondled her reverently, brushing his fingers over her stony nipples. She shivered, then moaned hard into his mouth. Her hands dropped from his shoulders to his waist. The girl hooked her thumbs inside Martin's underpants and tugged them down off his hips, pulling them out and down so his hard cock could spring up. As she tentatively placed her hand around his cock, she continued to kiss him with her eyes closed (Martin opened his eyes to see). An electric shock spread through Martin, surprising him with its intensity, and his hands moved down to Cindy's ass. For the first time, Cindy and Martin pressed their naked bodies against each other, kneeling on the floor like bride and groom soon after the ceremony, or at least like two people desperate to protect one another from the forces of the world that drive lovers apart. Martin's cock twitched in Cindy's hand, the head thumping against her tummy. "Take me to the bed," Cindy growled softly in Martin's ear. Martin took Cindy by the hand and helped her to her feet, kicking off his shorts. He took her to the bed, where he laid on his back. When he remembered what he'd left in his pants pocket, the condoms, Martin looked over at the dresser. But Cindy placed one finger on his cheek and turned him back to look at her, crouching over his naked body. "Shhhhh," she said. "Don't worry, you can pull out." The goddess was gone; the innocent was gone. All that remained, hovering over him with all the intensity of a storm cloud, was a spirit of heat and flesh and meat. This must be the last thing the male preying mantis sees, Martin suspected, before the spouse devours him. "Baby," Cindy said, and she meant Martin, not something to be taken for granted. She pressed her legs against his sides and rested her smooth bottom on his tummy. Martin wanted to touch her boobies again, and so he did, cupping them in his sweaty hands, pinching the nipples between thumb and finger. Cindy's mouth opened wide as she reached behind and found Martin's cock. The feel of her hand made him throb. She held the erect member at an angle, and then she moved her body backward slowly. The head pressed against her anus, and then Cindy moved it down to the opening in between her legs. Where before Martin had felt warm flesh, he now felt something burning like boiling water, steamy and heavy. The head of the penis slipped very, very easily in-between the slippery lips of Cindy's pussy, pushing the flesh apart with a sticky separating sensation. "Oh my god," Cindy said. She looked deep in Martin's eyes. He had never felt so safe in his whole life. As Cindy sat back, Martin's penis naturally progressed deeper inside her. Cindy closed her eyes and then, curiously, she laced her fingers together like a praying child, as she allowed her weight to pull her down onto the cock. Martin felt his heart pounding with frightening force. Nothing in the world existed except the hot, wet flesh pressing so hard around him, trying to grip him but unable to stop his frictioned advance deeper into the tunnel. A trickle of something warm ran down Martin's balls and over his anus. After Martin was completely buried inside his date, she tossed her head back, eyes still closed, and she grabbed her own breasts. At first she simply shuddered and shook on top of Martin, her tight body twisting in short jerky movements, her tits bouncing under the hands that held them. Then, Cindy began to ride Martin, up and down, a gentle slamming onto his balls, stroking his rod like a piston in some animal-like machine. "Ah, ah, ah, ah," Cindy sighed in a tender voice. She licked her lips, then opened her mouth wide and continued the gasping. Martin held her by her hips, helping her lift her body then slam it down. The tight pressure of her vagina was replaced with a creamy, sloppy caress, still gripping him hard but not in the constricting way of earlier. Martin could not take his eyes off the girl who fucked him, lost in her own passions, oblivious to anything other than the same sensation that dominated Martin's world. Martin began to come, but he refused. Instead of moving with Cindy, he tensed all his muscles and went rigid below her. Cindy continued to hump his cock, and her moanings were turning louder. Then, Cindy jerked like she'd been hit by an arrow, then another jerk, and then she started to ebb and flow in a wave above Martin; her orgasm has arrived, and it washed over her with fiery determination. "Oh god!" Cindy squealed in a high-pitched voice. Then she went silent as she rode out the barrage of passion flooding her body. Her cunt muscles gripped Martin with vicious strength, and he knew he was about to come. He pulled out of her, not waiting for her orgasm to end, and he sent his sperm flying onto his own tummy. Cindy lay on his thighs, disconnected. After she recovered, she looked down into Martin's eyes with devilish knowledge. She ran her fingers through the sperm in Martin's pubic hair, lifting one finger to her lips to clean it off. Martin's satisfied cock twitched at the sight. "That was nice," Cindy whispered. "Nice" was not the word that came to Martin's mind, but it would do until he could develop coherent thoughts again. A cell phone rang. Cindy looked back at her pile of sequined clothing. The ringing came from her handbag, but she made no move to lift herself from the bed; she had not fully recovered. The ringing stopped. Martin didn't know what to say, so he remained silent. After five minutes or so, Cindy swung her leg over Martin and got off the bed. She walked across the room, regal as a queen or a victorious athlete, leaned over and retrieved her phone. She hit some keys. "Hello, you called?… Nooo… Okay okay, I'm sorry… Yes, I'll be there soon… I don't know, I'll see… Bitch, chill out! I told you I'm on my way… You're kidding! She didn't!… She's such a whore… Okay, save me a seat at your table… No, don't tell him anything, I'll see him when I see him… Okay, bye." She dropped the phone back into her purse. "Get dressed," she said. The sun had begun to descend below the horizon, and Cindy turned on a lamp to find her clothes. She dressed herself, still standing naked in front of the hotel window. Martin stood on unsteady legs, used a washcloth to clean himself off. He put on his clothes as quickly as he could. Now he was looking forward to the prom in earnest, and even more, to what would follow the prom. He had the best prom date in a thousand-mile radius. Cindy held his hand as they went down the elevators to the car. This time, she sat in the driver's seat. They went back to their suburb, listening to some CD in Cindy's car stereo. Now it was Martin's turn to stare out the window and contemplate life. Leaving downtown meant going to the dance without dinner, but he wasn't really hungry anyway, and maybe he could get out of buying the expensive, obligatory prom gourmet supper. Everything seemed to be working out. The car made a wrong turn. They were not headed for the school. "Cindy," Martin said apprehensively, "are we going to the school?" "Well," Cindy began, "that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Then she stopped speaking. Martin waited for more. "Well?" he prodded. She probably wanted more sex, this time in the Beemer. "The thing is, I'm going to the prom with Doug. I always meant to, I just wanted to teach him a lesson. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I guess I just didn't think this thing all the way through." Wait a minute, Martin thought. This… wasn't happening. What had she said? "Look, you're really nice, and I appreciate you asking me out tonight. I guess I felt bad for not being able to go the prom with you, and I wanted to make it up to you. It was nice, don't you think?" But it wasn't nice. It was perfect, and passionate, and pathetic, and deeply flawed in every way that a mishandled human connection can be flawed, and it was, above all, over. The one thing it hadn't been was nice. How could he tell her the disappointment he felt? But she probably already knew, she wasn't stupid. She just didn't care. Suddenly he saw himself as very cheap, and stupid. "Why the tux?" he asked, betraying no emotion, because he felt none. "I… shit, I thought I might take you after all, at some point. Please don't be mad. You can still go to the prom, you know." "With who?" Martin asked. Cindy avoided the question. "Can you tell me where you live?" she asked, trying to sound chipper. "4510 Silver," Martin said. "Behind the mall." They rode the last five minutes of the drive in complete silence; even the radio was off now. Cindy pulled up to the curb. "I had a really nice time," she said, but her smiles were gone now, never to return. Only the celebrity remained. "You can tell people we fucked," she continued. "I don't mind, really." Martin got out of the car and started to walk up the sidewalk to his door. Then, for no reason, he sat on the curb. Cindy was still there, engine running. She rolled down the window and stuck her head out. Her hair remained perfect, tall and sculpted. "Hey Marty, will you be okay?" "No one calls me Marty," he said, staring at nothing. "I'll see you at school, okay?" Then without waiting for a response, Cindy pulled away from the curb. Moments later, her taillights vanished around the corner. She was gone. Martin felt ill. He tried to discern what lesson he was meant to have learned from all this, but there was none. He hated people no more nor less than he had before the day started. His opinions had neither been reinforced nor modified; they simply remained open to further data. But he knew one thing for sure. His senior prom sure was one of the suckiest moments of his entire life. The pink and orange of the horizon faded completely, leaving only the black haze of a suburban night. At eight o'clock, he stood and went inside. No one greeted him, so he went upstairs, changed, then played video games.