Somewhere still you’re streaming through a girl in silver slippers, and it saddens you, the slippers, how they shimmer only certain things.
Like her silvery legs in the mid morning light or the smell of her pale pink lipstick but never the sound of her name or the creak of her feet on the floorboards.
Her body is like pooling from her words like water falls. She’s draining something from your memories of other girls. She isn’t special but she has a way of doing so and that is why you think you’re learning to resent her.
She was scooping a teaspoon of sugar and stirring it up when she looked up and said,
how many minutes would it take for you to think you really knew me?
She was stirring her toes in the sand when you looked up and noticed the gleam in her eye. You said, how should I fuck you now that you are leaving? Please give me an adjective.
Like roughly softly smoothly sweetly? Slowly, you suggested. She corrected you. She said, let’s try abruptly.
You decided you would try to fuck her coldly. You are not unfeeling but this was your compromise.
Meghan Lamb lives on the south side of Chicago. She has published in Pank, Bluestem, elimae, Nano Fiction, and Pear Noir!. Her hair is not naturally red. Her hair is also not red.