to his best friend and said in a deep tone, “The best side of her you can witness is that fumbling, tipsy side. The one that has had one too many drinks,” he emphasized with air quotations, his fingers trembling.

“The person that comes to light in a drunken state, the one who is utterly vibrant and free.”

He leaned back, his shoulders sinking into the old couch as he took a deep breath. His eyes closed for a moment, inhaling memories.

“She’s so close and intoxicating. Her motions become fluid and her hips rhythmic. You don’t have to have a single sip to become drunk off of her overwhelming ideas. Her absolute vulnerability, and all of the articulated movements of her mind. Her hands may clasp at your collar, drawing you in closer.. to her level.”

He leaned forward now, his hands coming up to his eyes as they gripped his brow for an anchor in the storm.

“I’m telling you man.. the best part of her spills forth.. splashing upon your shoes like the overtipped bottle on the table. You may feel a flash of anger, an impulse to wipe it all away. But, that hesitation.. that fleeting moment of frustration. It’s.. the best part of her.”

It’s the best part.. of her.

The shadows creep up and expose themselves.

Dancing across the floor in waves.

It’s raw. It’s real.

The only show worth watching.

“That maroon lipstick.. you will wash it away lovingly.”



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