The morning looked like someone forgot to take the sun out of his pocket and went to take a shit. It was dreary and restless and waking up offered a lot less relief than taking a shit. In fact, the whole process of taking a shit began to sound real good when the alarm shrieked and he grew conscious of the cold. It crawled in through the cracks in his blanket. Like worms, he thought.

After about 20 minutes he found himself compiling an outfit for the day. His mother taught him that a proper wardrobe consisted of “slacks,” not “pants,” a button-down shirt, solid or stripes, and a nice woven sweater in a classic color to compliment a tone in the shirt. He considered this with a hint of retribution as he dug out the ball of jeans from within his clothing pile and rescued a drowning T-shirt from its depths. The T-shirt hung loosely from his bones. He noticed himself in a mirror and dusted off his shoulders.

It’s not that he was a slacker. He fucking hated labels. He just loved the way his hair felt greasy and raw when he tumbled away from his pillow. The permanent comfort level of his attire acted as a sort of shield against the day. There was something in the way the hems of his jeans brushed against the floors when his Vans scraped by his homeroom class. It was like two pelvises pushing up on each other. It was like sex.

20 minutes into class and his pelvis-slide sauntered in, a hearty aroma of weed and cigarettes surrounding him like a halo. He returned the teacher’s stern glare with a glassy stare. The sardonic wit could only be found somewhere at the corners of his mouth, in the cracks of his chapped lips.

He took his seat.

Something about nationalism. He was already completely disinterested. He took out a notebook and plopped it hard on his desk, for show. As if by magic he retrieved a pen from behind his ear and began scribbling, just as ostentatiously: My philosophy… he began. Halfway through the swoop of the y he got bored and started practicing his signature for when the band blew up. They were a grunge-tribute-post-punk-avant-rock four-piece band, with a chick singer belting out a Courtney Love inspired whine every 3rd measure. He was the bassist. Everyone knows the bassist gets all the play.

His forearms strained with veins and scars when he pressed the pen to the page. My philosophy, he continued, break through status-whoa. Your pink eyes lithium. Pucker up for pestilence. Shred the mold. He paused a moment and took a mental Polaroid of his handiwork. Gold. Maybe platinum. He’d share it with the guys in rehearsal tonight.

By the time class was over he’d scribbled down 20 lines, some at an angle, some winding out in a spiral. At the bottom right corner he’d drawn a bass clef. At the top right, a guitar. Someone shoved his notebook on her way out and grabbed at his shirt. It was the lead vocalist. He hadn’t noticed her until then; her hair wasn’t up in its usual spikes like the spokes of a wheel. Something about it disconcerted him.

“What’s with the hair,” he muttered. He figured if you apply as little effort as possible into speaking, it would give more import to what you were saying.

“What do you mean,” she replied, equally as disinterested.

“It’s different.” Indeed it was. Nothing was in it, and it hung loosely about her shoulders like drapes at your grandmother’s house, just brown, and dull, and like everybody else’s.

She managed to tuck a strand of it behind her ear before catching the door someone dropped on her. Her face showed neither expression nor a desire to express anything. By the time she woke up this morning it was too late to style it, and besides, gel was getting old anyway.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she threw back at him as she landed in her seat. It wasn’t his next class so he had to go. All the same, she thought.

For the rest of the period he was tugged by an anxiety that felt like needles up his ass. He couldn’t sit still or write any lyrics. By the time school crawled to an end he’d only written 20 lines and his name over and over again on the test he got back. He turned the C into a bass clef.

On his way home from school he saw her again, her hair limping like a beaten dog with each step. She seemed to be ignoring him, or playing deaf in her headphones. As they passed each other before taking different turns down the street, he held a lingering glance at her profile and thought how much better she looked with her bangs in a point.

She almost turned back to say goodbye, but by that time he had turned around. All the same, she shrugged, and adjusted her backpack so that one strap hung at her back like a broken wing. She deemed the image poetic and made a mental note to mention it to the guys at rehearsal. A car flew by and a scrap of paper slipped out of her bag. It had hearts and band names on it and she ran after it so no one could see.

When she got home she grabbed a snack from the pantry. Her mother would be at work ‘til five, as usual, and she had plenty of time to finish reading Kurt Cobain’s journals before mandatory dinner. She retrieved the book from between her mattresses and crashed hard on the bed. She let the chunky shoes fall with a bang and slipped off her pants which she threw in a corner. It was hard to imagine the sun had come out since morning, and she noticed how sexy her legs looked in the panel of yellow light seeping through. Almost time for a shave. The stubble was spiky like thousands of little teeth, or like the thorns on a rose stem, she thought. Maybe she’d mention it to the guys. But they’d never go for it.

She shrugged off the possibility as easily as she’d conceived of it. She pulled her bangs back with a headband and propped the book to her chest. Maybe she’d shave tomorrow, maybe she and her mom would go get highlights. Soon it’ll be summer, she thought, and pressed her thighs together for a little nap.