kamakazi.

I sat in the brown faux leather chair that made my shirt stick to the sweat on my back and my bare arms. I could feel my hair swell because of the humidity in the bun i wore atop my head.
We were all laughing, drinking kamakazis not knowing how much that said about us.
I fell in love when he whispered in my ear that he would always email me back, a response to my complaint that he hadn't. His breath was slightly more hot and damp than the air outside - deeply contrasted with the cooled air in the smoke filled bar. I ignored him and pretended like what he said and the way he said it hadn't affected me. In my mind I was kissing him a million kisses, fucking him a million orgasms, bursting forth his children, yin-ing his yang. In my mind I was his for as long as he would have me.
After the bar closed and we separated into our respective castes, stumbling toward hotels, I called out to him to come to my room: room 111. He would turn to look at me, walking backward, giving away his intentions with his mischievious stares. His friends would pull him along and mine me. Pulling us in separate directions.
It was no use. You can't change the mind of a kamakazi.