She stands there, simply, cocking her head like a dog. She doesn’t understand the glare of your eyes or the dip of the corners of your mouth. She is innocent, staring at her Converse, toes turned in, hips jutted out. She twiddles her thumbs, pulls at her shirt, just so her eyes don’t have to meet yours. You take her in your arms, but she pushes you away, taking with her the perfume smell of gardenias that you miss.