we fingerpainted on each other and kissed each other’s lips and the paint was toxic and we died tasting each other that way. it was nice. when we found out there was no heaven or hell, we went and had some ice cream to celebrate.

tore your dress.

Bus Stop

That boy got off the bus. That pretty boy with the khakis and loafers and button-down shirt. I wanted to grab his collar and kiss his mouth, rudely and brazenly, and see what he thought of that. He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him, but it doesn’t matter; we are free souls who don’t have the need to be tethered to each other by things like names. Just a kiss and a “Hello there, pretty boy.” Maybe he’d smile and return my greeting with cool, breathless words leaving the mouth that my mouth had just been stuck to, maybe he’d say, “Hello yourself, pretty girl,” and it would be nice like that.

And my fingers would still be on his collar, our bodies close together, and he’d be thinking about what I look like under this dress, and I’d be thinking about how his hair catches the sunlight in the most unique way and twists it around until it’s not just sunlight, it’s electricity.

Or maybe that boy who just stepped off, the one with the leather jacket and wicked mouth. I’d pretend to be a good girl and then raise myself up on my toes to give him a little something on the lips. I’d smile shyly, lowering my eyes and biting my lip, and say “Hi.” And maybe he’d be a little surprised at first, but then he’d curl his mouth into a wicked smirk - everything would be wicked with this boy - and say “Hi” back.

He would want another kiss after the initial shock wore off and he had a chance to look me over, and his hands would land on my shoulders and I’d pretend to fight him, both of us knowing that sometimes random kisses are the best kind, and the hell with significant others; if they’re not around to catch us in the act, then the act never happened. So he’d kiss me again and I’d work his tongue around in my mouth like I was tasting wine, only it would taste much better than wine and get you twice as drunk in a fraction of the time. He’d want to hold me tighter, kiss me longer, but I’d remove myself from his hands that weigh down my shoulders with the kind of weight that only a boy’s lust can wield, and wonder how swollen and red my mouth must be from that last kiss while he wonders what the hell just happened and why he liked it so much.

Some boys get off the bus expecting someone to be there waiting for them; you can see it in their shoes and their stiff bodies and the way they combed their hair that morning. The anticipation of a pretty girl at the bus stop, waiting to kiss them, is too much, and they fidget a lot and crane their necks to look out the window and see if the girl is there waiting for them, but she never is. People are there, waiting for other people, but the places where the boys think the girls should wait for them are empty and cold. The boys step off the bus and you can see their confidence plummet to the pavement like a stray nickel that doesn’t want to be spent.

One boy got off the bus; he was ugly but his mouth looked sincere, like he was the kind of boy who would tell you what he thought of you just by kissing you and mean every word of it. Boys like that are the best kind because you can lie to them and they’d never suspect.

So I kissed him and his mouth told me that he thought I was a pretty girl with pretty ambitions, but he wanted to know my name just to be sure he didn’t know me from somewhere else. Sometimes they’ll use that line on me, thinking that I’ll confess. After it’s over I might see them in the future and be startled when they call me a fake name I can’t remember giving to them, and I can’t remember their faces, only their mouths that told me everything I wanted to hear about myself and had heard before.

Sometimes I see one that I know will not want to kiss me, but if I time it just right I can swoop in before he knows what’s happening and let him have it. Then he pushes me away and looks around guiltily for a girlfriend or a friend of a girlfriend or a mother of a girlfriend, and finding none, the best he can do is say, “Who do you think you are, anyway?” and stalk off, dazed. Sometimes I catch him turning back to look at me, so I pose by the phone booth, my eyes inviting him to come back and finish what I started. He never takes me up on my offer. Boys like that are too cautious and worried. I want to tell them that things are different with a girl like me, but then I’ll have told them too much about myself.

Other boys get off the bus and wonder who the looker is off to the side, but they never find out because I kiss them and disappear. I kiss them and then I go away and leave them to their own inventions. It’s not every day that a boy steps off the bus and a strange girl with no name and no history, just a face and body and legs, approaches him to give him a kiss. He might want my name or number, but I’ll just smile again and back away, then turn and run with my hair flying everywhere, my bag banging against my thin back, and wonder if he’s standing back there, watching me go, or if he’s chasing me, and then I’ll run faster.

  1. toreyourdress posted this

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