So I’m sitting here, at The End of The World, a bar (a crude excuse for one), just on the outskirts of town where all the freaks gather for a shitty night. I’m looking like I just walked out of a photoshoot, only there weren’t any photographers. Talk about lame, right? Anyway, I sit here realizing that I have wasted my time getting dressed and that this whole place was anticlimactic. But then again, nothing exciting ever happens in Roswell.
That is what Camille says to anybody within earshot. Nobody takes the bait, but she’s fine with that. She knew enough not to expect anything from anyone, not even a decent conversation, from Roswell. But if there was one thing that Camille could expect, it was that Tyler Davidson would be here at the party (a lame one) with two girls wrapped around him. He was somewhat of a local celebrity here, if you count underground rap battles as a venue for artistry. She rolls her eyes at the sight of one redhead throwing her head back, letting out a cackle that strikes her as slutty. As hard as she wanted to fight it, a part of her wished she was sitting at his table. That was what Camille referred to as the cool table. Every get together had the cool kid’s table, and where Camile was was at the misfit table. To her right was a decrepit old man who was already on his fifth shot of whiskey. To her left, a creep with man boobs bigger than hers taking his time reading the news.
Camille was on her fourth gin and tonic, which the bar called Gin and Sin. Camille was ready to sin, but with the right guy, only the right guy was not here yet.
“He may not look like much, but trust me, he’s the one. You’ll run his heart to the ground.”
It might have sounded stupid, like some fortune cookie saying, but Camille couldn’t get that thought out of her hand. Wasn’t everything up until now seem like fate?