The Socialite

The Socialite

He watches her from across the static ocean. She puts on pretty pictures, but he wants to see the face behind the Benefit counter. She writes 'lol' in her sentences and gives out false love with the 'x' key; but he wasn't one for grammar or syntax himself. And she puts silly little status' up about her perfect little life, but she manages to make his life perfect just by breathing.

He wants to comment on something so she will see him. He liked something she did once, surely she'll remember him? The kid with the brown hair who sits at the back. The one who helped her with the maths homework once. The guy that wrote her a poem and stuck it to her locker door. The boy who looks at her profile picture at a blank smile injected with false happiness, trying to work out what went on in her mind.

She watches him from a laptop screen. Or her Blackberry. Or whatever, but not when anyone is watching. She loves him. She thinks. She doesn't think much, he has that effect on people. On her at least. But he wouldn't know that. She's just the blonde girl who used to go out drinking every night. The one who walked into him once and made him drop his stuff. The idiot. The simpleton. The socialite that everyone likes. Except him. But why not him? He's the only one that would matter.

She has plastic friends with plastic minds that society moulds at whim. They exhale carbon-monoxide all over her and she finds it hard to breathe. They shower her with shallow compliments, and she complies and returns them. They invite her to gatherings and offer her drugs and cheap vodka. But he wouldn't know that, and she wouldn't want him to.

He wants her badly. But he won't even bother. She's like the diamond at Tiffany's that women lust over. She's his little fantasy. That's all she'll ever be. His beautiful socialite.