I did the project relating to pictures, but seeing as how this is a new computer I have only a select few. I had to use my facebook to retrieve what pictures I could, only finding three of my best friend Christine, who is the mother of my god-son.








There she is, hunched over a sleak bar table at Logan's Roadhouse. Her brown eyes are fixated dead on the camera lens as her and I share a glass of sweet tea as if it's a milkshake or some other typical drink shared on a date. The her flourescent orange shirt directly contrasting the neutral brown weathered walls and burgundy cushions of the booth we're sitting in, while I sit across in my blue and white baseball-tee. Her hair, though disheveled and pulled into a pony tail shimmers back at the flash as though it were an ocean. We shared the tea and designated the beginning of our friendship. A mere four hours after this picture had been taken, we found ourselves standing outside of a bar pleading with the bouncers to let us in as over twenty one. This day was the first of many things; pictures, nights out, and late-night festivities.

She was lucky. Her caramel complexion only darkened into a deep mocha throughout the sunny days of summer. Papers and aprons covered the backseat of her silver camry, yet it never stopped her from just popping a squat. The sun, blazing in the background, has left an ethereal appearance on her face as her half-cracked smile revealed her luminescent chomps. She had worn orange boy shorts and a white camisole in preperation for the car wash to pay for our work party. Christine had a way about her that caused multiple cars to turn into the parking lot for a scrub. We sat there, in the second town of our friendship, as if we were a traveling group of Logan's employees.

Nights out were a favorite past time for us. Not so much the going out, but the thrill of getting in as over twenty-one and the possibility of getting caught. The orange wrist bands dangling on our wrists as we give a thumbs up to the camera give an emphasis to the wide cheesy smiles we portray. The shelves behind us are lined with liquid poison. Vodka, rum, gin and the like line up behind us as if called in by the military. They would be disbanded later and Christine and I would find ourselves on the curb outside waiting for a ride to a party. The fan on the left blew air across the bar, causing her hair to dance and the smoke of her cigarette to twirl around her arm.