He said that he is 56. I wondered if he dyed his hair, because it was an unnatural shade of brown.
I was wearing a form fitting, short skirt and he noticed me. He sat next to me on a filthy couch and leans in to say, “You have amazing thighs, and I’ve seen a lot of legs…” Read the rest of this entry »
He has an illustration in his closet. In the portrait, he is holding a women by the waist. He gently rests his hand on her hip. She is naked and he is fully clothed. I wonder who she is because she is very attractive.
There are bloody hand prints on a blank billboard. The dried blood has a creamy quality to it.
I ask him, “If you don’t feel the same way about me as you used to, tell me…”
“I don’t…”
I start crying. I feel bad that I am blowing off a friend. We were supposed to meet at the ice cream convention. I knew they’d be mad and wouldn’t be understanding.
I have no idea where I am. My shirt is so stretched out that my breasts are showing. I pull up my shirt to try to cover myself. I feel horrible, exposed.
jelliebeers 