Bad vodka. A taste not unlike kerosene fills her mouth. But this isn't about taste. Another swig and she's detached from her mind, talking with her body. She clamors toward the swing set, a fantastic idea in her addled mind.
Back and Forth.
Back and Forth.
Her stomach protests angrily but she ignores its twisted complaints. After all, tonight is her night. She is immune to pain. He sits over there, holding a whiskey bottle with that crinkly smile on his face she had grown to love. Her expression reveals nothing, her face smooth and content though her heart hammers recklessly in her chest. She falls clumsily off the swing and reaches for him, her pale hand grasping through the heavy darkness.
"C'mon, give me your best shot!" Her glittering eyes dance in front of him like shards of glass. Torturing him. He remembers them well. Taste me, they say. I dare you. He feels the desire pulse through him as he looks at her.
He has sworn never to look at that girl again, but the second his gaze flecks over her form he is stuck. He takes in the soft lips, the hints of summer still lingering in her cobalt eyes. How did a thing so lovely lie to him? He shouldn't look at her. He can't get near her without the conjured images of that boy's hands on her gentle skin seeping in to his vision.
But he is a boy of fifteen, a slave to the invisible physics of testosterone, and she is a beautiful girl. He follows her dutifully, tantalized by the scent she trails. It is one he knows well: the warm, sweet scent of vanilla. Christ, how has he lasted this long without giving in? It is useless, his will is no match for the fascination she offers. She leads him up to the top of the play structure, a tower accessorized by a mock steering wheel and a plastic roof. He feels silly, having erotic notions in a place normally inhabited by children. She turns to face him, and again he is mesmerized, this time by the thick black lashes that frame those captivating eyes.
"Are you sure you want to do this while you're drunk?" He murmurs. Please, say no. Please make the right decision for me.
She doesn't hesitate, because she knows. This girl knows. She knows so much, she doesn't have to think. She just does.
It comes back instantly, like riding a bike. Her lips are on his in a matter of seconds. Melting, like a fallen ice cream on a scalding July sidewalk. Oh, god, this...He remembers this...
Smooth, warm, body against his. The curve of her breast. The velvety waves of her hair underneath his capable fingers. A burning sensation that has no other name but passion. Familiar, like home after a dragged out vacation. Her tongue dances expertly in his mouth. She is his prima ballerina. She executes a perfect arabesque, a flawless grand jeté. Suddenly the Tchaikovsky stops playing and a cashmere voice sighs in his ear;
"I missed you."
"I missed you too." He wishes he didn't. He would be healthier without her eyes and her lips and her insatiable lust.
But everything healthy ends up being dull anyway.