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It’s in a broken down 1968 Impala, laughing around plastic forks full of Chinese food that I think that I might like Tyler just a little too much. I think of Tyler Durden as a god among men, but the thing is, he makes me feel like one when I’m with him.
Marla was still hovering over Paper Street yelling about her mother’s fat. We didn’t know how long we were gonna be here. We got beers and Chinese food on our way here and snuck into some random car on a random, abandoned used car lot. Well, I say snuck but they don’t even lock the doors. Tyler stopped saying all the worse things that could’ve happened instead of cooking Marla’s mother into soap earlier. Now it’s all empty conversation and wild laughing.
I’m in the backseat sitting criss-cross applesauce and Tyler is propped up on the center console, trying not to choke on rice from a joke that I told. It makes me feel like a god. His laugh is manic and high pitched. I feel myself melt every time I hear it.
He gets me to pass him another beer. I’m not sure how many we’ve had, but it feels like a little too many. I feel the small pricks of pleasure buzz through my veins. My head is just starting to feel fuzzy. I snap out of my stupor when he literally snaps in my face.
“You alright, Psycho-boy?” I nod around a delirious smile. He chuckles as he bites another forkful of noddle, tossing his takeout container in the front seat. He props his feet in my lap. He guzzles the rest of his beer and sets down the empty beer bottle next to the others. He wiggles his toes in my lap and I laugh when they tickle my thigh.
“Damn, you’re drunk. Knew you were a fucking lightweight.”
“Tyler, I drank like 8 beers.” He shrugs and smirks in that sort of Tyler way. It’s predatory or childlike, I can’t tell which. All I know is the street lamps outside the car make his liquid blue eyes shine and his sharp cheekbones stick out. Then Tyler Durden falls into my lap, straddling me against the leather seats.
“So you’re probably drunk enough to forget this?” His head hovers above mine, lips brushing my nose. His breath smells like smoke and Kung Pao chicken.
“Why would I want too?” Is what my drunk brain supplies as he goes into to kiss me. He tastes like beer and resurrection. My hands hold onto his waist as he sticks his tongue in my mouth. I feel the scrape of his light stubble against my cheek and I smile. His hands are pushing up against the leather seats next to my head, trapping me in our embrace. I can’t really complain. He sucks on my tongue and I feel his soft breathing against my cheek. He pulls away after a while and chuckles softly when I follow his mouth.
He sits back on my thighs so we’re eye to eye and moves his hands to my cheeks. He pulls me towards him again. This time the kiss is slow and chaste and soft. You really wouldn’t think Tyler was capable of something like this. I forget that as his thumb rubs against my cheek and his other fingers play with the unkempt hair at the nape of my neck.
I feel the slight up curve of his lips against my own, the scrape of his red leather jacket against my sweater. I realize I might not just like Tyler. I move my hands from his hips to his face and run my hands through his spiky hair. He has to pull back after a minute because of his incessant smile.
“I’m really glad we don’t think straight.”
“Was that a pun?” He smiles and licks my lips.
“I love it when you’re clever.”
“I love you.” Tyler stops for a second, his thumb frozen against my cheekbone. My hand stops the slight pulls in his hair. Shit.
“There you go again. Being clever. I love you too, Pretty-boy.” He pulls me in, smile wide against my lips, pecking my lips again and again. We laugh at nothing as we kiss, the streetlight illuminating off Tyler‘s brownish blond hair.
“This is definitely not as bad as Marla killing us for cooking her mother,” Tyler adds as he kisses me again.
“You cooked her. I had nothing to do with this.” Tyler chuckles against my lips, fingertips dragging across my neck and collarbone through my sweater. Instead of answering, he just kisses me again, pushing me further into the hard leather of the Impala seats. I kiss him back, raising my neck at an almost awkward angle to meet his lips.
We kiss for a while, the quarter moon shining in through the muddy window and the streetlights painting Tyler’s cheek with the sales agreement “AS IS” sticker on the windshield. The kissing is lazy and sweet, two things Tyler Durden has never been described as.
After a while, our eyes get droopy and the kisses are sloppy and we lay down on the seats, him half on top of me and half on his side, kissing at my chapped lips and nuzzling my cheek with his nose. We slowly fall asleep against each other, his head snuggled into my neck and my arm wrapped around his waist. He slips his red leather jacket off and his tank top clad torso is pressed against my ribs.
When I wake up, Tyler is snuggled against my side, his soft breaths blowing against my chest as drool comes out on my sweater. I feel myself smile and my hand goes into his spiky hair, running through it slowly so I don’t wake him. He sighs lightly and cuddles closer into my neck. I melt against the leather seats.