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A puddle bloomed on his knee, as he sat beneath the poplar, before the church, waiting. Anytime now, she would **** by on her bike that made noises like a rabid top. The two soggy cones, held in his shaking fists dripped strawberry cream, sticky, pungent, and pink. He had heard that girls like pink. Roadside gravel crunched and spun as she approached. Her brown legs were always moving, the muscles changing—they would have driven Leonardo mad. She passed by blind. He let the pink cones fall to the dirt with the others. Ants gnawed on his legs. He would try again. Climbing on the bridge with hands full, always of strawberry cream, he wavered, nearly fell, and sat down on the stone ledge. Gravel ricocheted. Sleeves, his and hers, touched as she passed. He nearly fell in the water, but she touched his sleeve, touched him. Pink swirls teased fish in the rocky creek. He became a crossing arm with strawberry cream cones. Stones sprayed. Crash. Why didn’t you move, you idiot, she growled, wiping ****** stones off her once-perfect knees. He didn’t speak. I love you. Can you move? My boyfriend is waiting for me, she said, standing on the pedals, her legs still. Numb, he shifted, and she whizzed away. He looked at the gravel lining the bridge and saw blood staining the pebbles red and pink. Sifting, them through his fingers, he knew that on her, he had left his mark, and him, she would not forget.
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Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
She Was Chocolate, and He Was Vanilla
A puddle bloomed on his knee, as he sat beneath the poplar, before the church, waiting. Anytime now, she would **** by on her bike that made noises like a rabid top. The two soggy cones, held in his shaking fists dripped strawberry cream, sticky, pungent, and pink. He had heard that girls like pink. Roadside gravel crunched and spun as she approached. Her brown legs were always moving, the muscles changing—they would have driven Leonardo mad. She passed by blind. He let the pink cones fall to the dirt with the others. Ants gnawed on his legs. He would try again. Climbing on the bridge with hands full, always of strawberry cream, he wavered, nearly fell, and sat down on the stone ledge. Gravel ricocheted. Sleeves, his and hers, touched as she passed. He nearly fell in the water, but she touched his sleeve, touched him. Pink swirls teased fish in the rocky creek. He became a crossing arm with strawberry cream cones. Stones sprayed. Crash. Why didn’t you move, you idiot, she growled, wiping ****** stones off her once-perfect knees. He didn’t speak. I love you. Can you move? My boyfriend is waiting for me, she said, standing on the pedals, her legs still. Numb, he shifted, and she whizzed away. He looked at the gravel lining the bridge and saw blood staining the pebbles red and pink. Sifting, them through his fingers, he knew that on her, he had left his mark, and him, she would not forget.
Written by
h-m-groniger
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
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