"Hey, you’re really cute. Wanna go get high somewhere?"
It’s sunny, somewhere. Just like she’s naked, somewhere, under all those clothes.
She tells me that she likes my writing. I tell her that’s cool. “I’ve always admired your body,” I say, studying her through clothes, “of work. I’ve wanted to become more familiar with it.”
She giggles, because I’m not being funny. She giggles, because it disarms me; when she giggles, the knives fall from my coat, and the guns from my hands. When she giggles, my hands twitch, nervously, spastically. Like I’m reaching for her throat, or to pay the bill.
I tell her, “I want to write you a piece of something,” which is my way of saying, “take off your fucking clothes, would you?”
She reads my writing like I want her to read my mind. See how I think about her, the bits that don’t make it onto the page because I don’t like to be fully incriminated in stark black and white. I just write that way.