Cut the Cute.

We were a little less than acquaintances that day, having run into one another on Main Street when a riot broke out. The crowd stood silently, watching a topless woman shout and flail about, her face an angry shade of lilac.
“Society has raped me of my womanhood!” she bellowed, trying to force her screams between the cracks of each brick building. A second protester ran into the road, dousing the topless woman in fake blood that dripped down her breasts, falling like delicate lace on the gravel beneath her bare feet. A nervous hand crept into mine, and I locked my fingers tightly around it, my eyes still fixed on the crimson spiraling into the rain gutters as I led her away with me.
We went on a few official dates after that, a wine tasting, a horror film, bar-hopping. I ended these dates quickly, faster than she wanted; switching out meaningful conversation over a mediocre dinner for mechanical sex, the same way my mother pulled the cracked eggs out of the carton at the grocery store. She would bite at my lip, hungry for more than just a physical embrace. When she called to tell me about her newest painting I would rush her off the phone just to let her know that I was the one in control. I invited myself over for a quick fuck between classes – no cigarettes, no wine, just a simple pattern, like the one sewn into the bottom of my dress.

“I was expecting a lot more clutter from an artist. Where’s all of your work, huh? Your masterpieces?”
I jeered at her, playfully elbowing her in the ribs as I dropped my purse next to the doormat.
A sliver of a smile flashed across her lips – the same kind that I suppressed whenever she said “Benjamin's” or “too legit.” She didn’t wear any make-up but she’d had her septum and eyebrow pierced, her short black hair shaggy and always in her eyes, paired with a long-sleeved blouse and boy cut jeans.
“You know where they are, Mel.” She muttered as she kicked off her ballet flats, staring at me with indifference, obviously frustrated that I was playing this game with her again.
“But I really don’t remember Lesley, I promise!” I inched toward her, my hands hugging the bone of her hips.
Her fingers fluttered at the hem of my dress for an instant and I saw the floodgates crack. It was crushing her, waves of hurt and desire resurfacing, forcing her under, refusing to let her up for air. I pushed forward, enjoying the familiar wounds that returned to the center of her eyes. I kissed her earlobe and I could feel her trying to find her breath.

“Why can’t you just fucking leave me alone?” she growled from behind clenched teeth, pinning me to the wall of her bedroom. Pulling her closer, I shrugged coyly as if I didn’t have an answer, but I knew. It wasn’t love, and it wasn’t lust. It was this fleshy, salty taste that sat on the back of my tongue, constantly burning into the roof of my mouth - Greed. My hands ran up and down her sides, re-exploring her familiar curves as I reached up to loosen a single button on her blouse.

“Show me.” I bit at her ear, breaking down her defenses. Her blouse gave way to my heavy hands and her artwork blinked its sleepy eyes at me, sucking in fresh air. A brilliant score of vermilion, saffron, and violet inked deep across her chest, swirling into cerulean waves and tangled sheet music as the sleeves of her shirt stretched down towards the floor.