It was she and I that day. We had been driving all over the city. We visited vintage shops and vinyl record stores. She talked of life and how she didn't want to finish school. I told her of my dreams and what I wanted to become. She pretended to seem interested.
She pulled her rusty Cadillac into an abandoned park and proceeded to apply lipstick in the dark while glancing into her rearview mirror for confirmation that she would have no red flecks on her teeth. I listened for the faint ghost-cries of a child of who maybe had fallen off one of the swings or was complaining of a bruised knee. When I glanced around, I saw once again, it was just she and I. I closed my eyes again and leaned my head against the seat and smoothed the wrinkles from my silk skirt. She had turned the radio down to where I could only hear a faint buzz of the music.
She wanted to hold my hand that night. She grabbed me by the wrist and put my fingertips on her cool cheek. "Do you think..." she mumbled, with alcohol tainted breath, "the stars taste like anything?" I glanced up to the sky; this black canvas drenched in a blanket of smeared twilight.
"Yes. I think they would taste something like you," She had this flirty grin on her redredred-painted lips. Her breasts were pushing daintily against her blouse. "They would taste like vanilla. Vanilla and cigarettes," I continued.
"So? Taste the stars then," she slurred. I cocked my head to see a few tattooed skinheads approaching us in the distance. Their music was blaring and they were talking in their native, thug-like language. She was oblivious to this. "Did you hear what I said?" she asked.
"Yes."
She pressed her lips to mine then. I smelled her vanilla perfume and tasted the leftover linger of cheap menthol cigarettes. I tasted the vodka that had she had been sipping.
I tasted the stars that night.
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Tidbit from a Novella I'm working on. I may post more in a future. Critiques aren't needed at the moment - I know I'm way out of practice at writing flirty erotica between two girls.
She pulled her rusty Cadillac into an abandoned park and proceeded to apply lipstick in the dark while glancing into her rearview mirror for confirmation that she would have no red flecks on her teeth. I listened for the faint ghost-cries of a child of who maybe had fallen off one of the swings or was complaining of a bruised knee. When I glanced around, I saw once again, it was just she and I. I closed my eyes again and leaned my head against the seat and smoothed the wrinkles from my silk skirt. She had turned the radio down to where I could only hear a faint buzz of the music.
She wanted to hold my hand that night. She grabbed me by the wrist and put my fingertips on her cool cheek. "Do you think..." she mumbled, with alcohol tainted breath, "the stars taste like anything?" I glanced up to the sky; this black canvas drenched in a blanket of smeared twilight.
"Yes. I think they would taste something like you," She had this flirty grin on her redredred-painted lips. Her breasts were pushing daintily against her blouse. "They would taste like vanilla. Vanilla and cigarettes," I continued.
"So? Taste the stars then," she slurred. I cocked my head to see a few tattooed skinheads approaching us in the distance. Their music was blaring and they were talking in their native, thug-like language. She was oblivious to this. "Did you hear what I said?" she asked.
"Yes."
She pressed her lips to mine then. I smelled her vanilla perfume and tasted the leftover linger of cheap menthol cigarettes. I tasted the vodka that had she had been sipping.
I tasted the stars that night.
___________________
Tidbit from a Novella I'm working on. I may post more in a future. Critiques aren't needed at the moment - I know I'm way out of practice at writing flirty erotica between two girls.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
Oh! And you're an absolute sugar snap pea for saying i look even a bit like the real Weetzie.