[[౨ৎmusique ౨ৎ]
“Higher standards or not,” Amani remarked with a languid shrug, her voice carrying the same disinterested weight one might use when commenting on the rain. “It’s human nature- I’m human.” The words hung in the air, devoid of warmth or malice, as if she were reciting a fact as ordinary as the day’s weather forecast.
A faint, knowing smile tugged at her lips when he dismissed the notion of her and Arya together, his voice laced with the presumption that Arya was “too good” for her. “Too good?” she repeated, a single brow arched in amusement. “She dated you and bigfoo, does she really have a standard?” Amani let the question linger, her tone casual, almost bored. “Besides, I’m not asking for her to be my girlfriend,” she added, the words slipping out with a careless precision. “I’m asking to be fucked. There’s a difference.”
Amani watched him with a detached disinterest as he rambled on about Jesse and himself, weaving some fantasy where they’d do the same thing to her. His voice became a dull hum in the background, barely registering as her gaze drifted down to her nails. A black French tip, perhaps? It would contrast nicely with her skin. Or should she go for red? Bold, but not unexpected. Maybe she should stick with her own version of the classics and choose emerald—her favorite. The thought of that deep green against her fingers almost made her smile, a brief escape from the tedium of the conversation. Yes, it was decided, she would stick with the classics for both her pedicure and manicure- it always complimented her and all the outfits she chose to wear. There was a certain disgust in her tone, as if the very idea of letting him touch her in her right mind was as repulsive as wiping your shxt with nothing but your hands. He didn’t seem to know her well too, because if he thought that she would ever let someone release inside her, then he let alone him, was laughable—no, it was worse than that. It was insulting. It was more insulting than the slut comment with ‘no control over her aching body’ or whatever he said, because yes, Amani was a slut and? Was she supposed to be horrified at being called a slut? She was 22 and in college, those petty high school insults didn’t phase her anymore, especially since the word ‘slut’ was thrown around often as if it was a pack of gum.
He had told her that there was no need to worry about himself and Vincenzo- that he had that figured out, and she smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile nor a kind expression that reached her face, but rather a cold, calculating one that barely touched her eyes. She let out a soft chuckle, almost as if she found his entire response amusing in a pitiable sort of way. “No you don’t,” At her words, her smile couldn’t help itself but to grow wider. “You better watch out, Vincent,” She let out a giggle, “One day your Dunman might leave you for Routledge, like I did,” She mused, And then where will you be? Who will be your next best friend? Owner? The cipher boy you hand out with?"She snorted as if the idea was not believable. “Poor little Vincenzo,” She covered her mouth with her hand, as if trying to hide her giggles, “Never the chosen, always the abandoned.”
That was all she needed to say before the conversation veered back to Arya, with Vincenzo blaming her for the fallout as though it were her fault. Had she ever asked him to put her first? No, she had not. Had she ever demanded he spend time with her instead of his girlfriend? No, she had not; that was entirely his choice. “Nobody asked you to feel bad for me,” she said with a sharpness that cut through the air, her gaze locking onto Vincenzo’s with a steely resolve. “You should have felt bad for your girlfriend instead.” It was infuriating that he, of all people, thought he had the right to pity her when he was more pathetic than she could ever be. “You knew I wouldn’t care if you pushed me away. You chose not to, and you chose to prioritize some girl over your own girlfriend—just as you did with the Dunman and your girl, or rather, your ex-girlfriend. When are you going to get your priorities straight, Vincent?” She did not say more, though there was a lot more that could have been said, a whole lot more. Rather, she let him speak, to say his own words, and he did, and she cursed at him- childishly and unsophisticated, which she disliked. She was not supposed to let him get under her skin like this, she was not and yet he did. Thus, her next words were more cruel, dismissing her own emotions, in an effort to tarnish his. She had acted like she did not care, and she didn’t know how she was expecting Vincenzo to react, but it was not like that.
Terrified of the raw emotion in his voice, the depth of his hurt, the intensity of his gaze. She was terrified of his words. “I did care,” She finally admits looking down at her shoes like a little girl. “I suppose I did,” She opened her mouth, “But-” she shut her mouth. There was nothing to say, she didn’t know what else to say because there were no buts to it, and she couldn’t even feign one.
She was about to pivot, to shift the conversation away from this painful charade, but when she turned to face him, she froze. They were close—closer than she had realized. Their breaths mingled in the space between them, noses almost grazing. His lips, just a whisper away from hers, seemed to hold a magnetism of their own, an almost palpable charge that defied the chasm of their argument. She could feel the heat of his breath against her skin, and her mind swirled with conflicting emotions. Was he going to kiss her? He was, wasn’t he?
But no, she didn’t want this, she didn’t want this at all. It was one thing to have fcked him, it was an entirely different thing to kiss him and there were many reasons she did not want this kiss. He was Vincenzo- Enzo, who had once felt like an almost-brother, a part of the family she had known and cared for in a way that was more familial than romantic. The very thought of crossing that boundary felt like a betrayal of their shared history, an erasure of everything they had been to each other.
There was also the argument, they had just finished arguing, and he wanted to kiss her? Was he okay in the head. Such a thing, would be romantic between lovers, but they were not lovers, they were not even friends, any longer, it was just disturbing, a grotesque mismatch of feelings and expectations that left her feeling more exposed than ever. Especially when in her mind, she was wishing it was someone else standing here, someone she also disliked but confused her, after the encounter of today. Someone whose presence had unsettled her in ways she couldn’t quite articulate, stirring up feelings she was still trying to understand. A person she had history with, and she wanted to try to see if she kissed them, would it still feel like their teenage years?
As Vincenzo leaned in, his lips almost grazing hers, the memory of the green dress he had bought her—an act of humiliation veiled as a gift—flashed through her mind. It was as if the universe had conspired to force her into this moment of intimate violation, a grotesque joke at her expense.
Suddenly, a surge of anger and resolve flooded through her. Her heart pounded, her breath came in shallow bursts, and with a fierce determination, she pushed him away. The force of her action was as much an expression of her emotions as it was a physical barrier against the unwanted kiss. As his body staggered back, she stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling with the weight of what she had just done.
She didn’t even talk about the kiss, to him, instead, she took a step sideways, her chest repeating its rise and fall action, as she changed the topic to the dress. he had asked her to thin about why he had gotten it for her, and she questioned how in the hell would she know that, she was no mind reader- that response, of course, made him grit his teeth and all she could think was- what the hell had gotten to him? Was there something In particular about September 28th that she didn’t know about? “Just tell me,” She said rolling her eyes and ignoring the jab, “What’s so special about September 28th?”