She smelled like perfume and tobacco, this sweet musky aftertaste that was left when we said goodbye. I have a type, and going out with her definitely went against that. I like chubby, posh femme girls who wear puffy dresses and too much lipstick and pronounce my name like I am an endangered species.
She carried muscle like I store fat and spoke as though she had seen it all. She touched me like life depended on it. And in that moment it did.
We didn’t kiss, even though she tried and I wanted to, because I like girls with long hair, dinner bells, and ball gowns and she hasn’t worn a dress in 10 years. She doesn’t know about spilled milk and maybe I should stop expecting people to have had the same life as me, but I have tea parties and she has never even had lunch.
And yet here I am, thinking about her, again and again. ♦