#hit

#hit was composed completely on the fly 140 charcacters at a time on Twitter. I didn’t even know I was going to do it until my fingers started typing. However much I am a serious perv, I’m also a romantic. –M

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There’s a very specific but still hard to define feeling one gets after, say, downing two or three shots of whiskey, but before they hit. You have this sense of inevitability. Of having set wheels in motion that you can’t stop. You’re waiting for that buzz to kick in , for your senses to change their perception. For things to… blur . Just a little. It’s only a few shots, after all, you’re not getting totally gone. Not yet. So you say. But, the air in your head is charged, waiting for the strike. It’s the absolute worst time to see her. I’m sitting there in full possession of my faculties, but the clock is ticking. My judgment, my inhibitions have finite lifetimes. I want to talk to her. I have to. I will. But will I warn her? Will I tell her I’m about to become braver than I really am? More reckless? I feel like a bomb about to go off. I should run, spare myself embarrassment. Spare her annoyance. But. But I won’t. And I know it’s coming. Seconds of lucidity ticking away. I’m not surprised to find myself moving in her direction. And of course I stammer my introduction; I’m in a hurry. I can feel the alcohol tickle my optic nerve. I hear myself tell her the things I’ve thought from afar.  I see her listen. The buzz slides over my brain as I’m talking to her, confessing. I’m almost panicked, feeling it hit, trying to determine whether it’s the whiskey or her having this effect on me. It feels almost the same, looking into her eyes. I’m rambling, I know I am, but I can’t seem to stop, until her hand moves to cover mine. Then… it’s not the whiskey hitting me anymore.