It begins with a slight touch of the arm.Then her fingers, full of teases, trail down his arm, skip his hand, and land on his thigh. As her hand slowly roams, her eyes look his entire being up and down, as if seeing what it is exactly he amounts to. She doesn’t even like him, she does not appreciate him. Witnessing this hurts me, and an aching feeling manifests between my muscle tissue and skin. Anger itches under my fingernails. But she is beautiful, and womanly, and he is after all, a boy. And so he falls for her bag of tricks and smiles, as I sit, and watch. Her words are like slow jazz music, wearing fiery red lipstick. My words are the opposite,the sound of a child beating a xylophone. He of course, has chosen the smooth jazz, leaving childhood behind. We had been together forever, and as we often said “til the end and farther.” But then, he met her. That gorgeous girl with a wide smile and an alluring walk. She wore heels of grace, and the swagger of an Egyptian queen. I know I am not perfect, or as pretty as her. This saddens me, creates an empty feeling at the pit of my weak stomach.