The Boy

A definite mistake, I know.

But who cares? Maybe I want to be wrong. Maybe I like a boy who treats me like a wet sock and only ever kisses me when he wants to f—

So what?

The way his gaze felt on my back, it was cold and warm at once, and which was which I couldn't tell. He said he liked how his name sounded on my lips, and when I pointed out that he hadn't told me, he smiled and said that even he didn't know his own name.

Well, okay.

His hair was silver grey and down to his shoulders; beautiful, if there was ever a word to describe it. And when I stared for too long, he came closer and, with his fingers, slipped a strand into my mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and coconut and lime. And I thought, my god, never have I ever tasted something so absolutely...

Wrong.