Allure; distilled vodka

He was perfect. She talked about how it felt when she touched him; he felt like a man. She hadn’t thought of him until he sent her a message. Then it all came back. The four different cars. The woman he embraced atop a bed of leaves. The lies. The leaving. Her words.

They spent four hours sitting in a car talking about the intimate moments they shared – the public and the private. And when they kissed, she realized the walls he couldn’t get past and the walls he could tear down. Screen captures of his face, on top of her, giving a different kind of love.

With her head in his lap she thought about what it would be like for him to be the one she did love. The one she wanted to love. Ready to love the one who didn’t know she loved him. She thought about what he would say. What they’d talk about. How his waist would feel in her grip. But she’d wait for that.

In the car she asked him why he sent the message. His indistinct answer was something along the lines of missing her, tired of going off memory. Despite her sudden departure, he was glad he could inspire some of her work. She looked out the window of the car that sat idle on a dead end street. Thought about how she prayed for men and played with boys. Looked to him and said Thank you.