I should have known she still loved me when she showed me her ring. Lisa called me from a number I hadn’t seen in three years. She wanted to tell me something and she had to tell me in person. She drove to my house and called my parents mom and dad. We sat in my room, in the same spot we first kissed and she told me she was getting married. She looked me up and down and didn’t find any reaction she wanted. I was in love and that took me a year to do after her. Her name was Jessica and I was a fool to think I’d marry her one day. Three years go by and I’m single, depressed and recently out a thousand or so dollars I threw into the ocean. I should have returned the ring I bought Jessica when I first thought I tasted him on her lips.

I marked my place with a thin wooden pencil that didn’t ruin the biding. The pencil being made of wood was important. It smelt like burning wood, it warmed me and made me feel like a writer by the fire instead of a writer with central heating.

Her named was Wendy and I almost kissed her a few times. She was a foot shorter than me with dirty blond hair and dirty blonde ways. She never looked innocent even in her faded purple Eeyore hoodie that swallowed her shape and the skimpy tops that put her breast anywhere your eyes looked. Her lapse of common sense still makes me want to kiss her neck. Once in art class she asked a girl, “Why did you paint the hands black?” I grabbed her with my legs and arms then whispered to her it was the same reason the girl signed it Keisha Jones. My lips touched her ear lobe with ever syllable. I should have kissed her neck.

She scratched my back and told me to show my friends. She took a picture with my phone and sent it to the girls I knew better than her. They didn’t have half of much as me as she did under her fingernails.

She greeted me with a beer and a bad kiss. We’ve spent too long kicking shins with wit and harsh debates that turned into rough hateful sex. I wanted my dick to hurt her. Her nails made me bleed.

It ended with my disgust and her shame.

Her skin wasn’t spanish and she had bits of twilight in her darker than night hair. Her dress was tight enough to see the boning of her corset and was short enough to see where her stockings hooked. I approached her like I said I would to at least one girl. I grabbed her side, touched her face and said hi. I kissed her and she showed me what her tongue can do.

She smoked in my car and after we had sex she talked to me about Nietzsche with mimes, sounds and ums. Her books were read because they were bought for half price. She wanted to prove she was smart with misunderstandings and links made in her mind with ecstasy tunnels. I think about her. I hope she becomes the girl she wanted to be. I’m still a writer with no money.

She let me cum on her face and when we took a shower she had dinosaur towels.

I fell in love with a girl that wasn’t worth it. I chased her with flowers and chivalry and caught her with misogyny. The novelty of her faded and I realized she was just another thing that I could live without.

I laid in bed naked, gripping my hair and putting teeth marks in a metal pen. No words would come. There was a flash from a camera and a smile from the girl who took my clothes off. She told me it was for blackmail. I don’t care who sees me naked. She said that being naked wasn’t something I would hide but not being able to write was.