A couple of innocent words. A wink. I can’t pretend I don’t know how she feels. I suppose it’s the way that they all feel. And then I look at her.
She’s the kind of girl that you’d ironically fall for. Model skin, model hair. She actually speaks French, nom de diu! She takes pretty pictures of herself amongst the scenery, posing as one who is very much alive. You, who would protest about how photographs can’t capture the majesty of the world, and find a certain amount of deadness in that which is judged by the surface, you’d fall for her anyway.
With her pretty lips and pretty mouth. They could say the words that my mouth says and you wouldn’t find the same meaning, but you’d want her ideas that much more. The saccharine taste of pretty.
You just would.