It’s Friday night and there’s a girl I don’t know pressing up against me, sweaty skin clinging to mine like film on top of sticky rice flour cakes sold in the morning market. We're caught in the midst of a mass of hot bodies jumping to a cacophony of thundering beats, synthetic bass lines, and electronic glissandos. She's kissing me, bright turquoise nails—almost the exact same colour of your hair—digging into the recesses of my tangled curls.
She tastes wrong on my lips, and yet she’s sighing contently—does she perhaps think that she fits like a puzzle piece in my arms? This feels all wrong. She drapes her arms around my neck, pulling me close to her. She kisses the crook of my neck where you used to rest your head. It's wrong. It's all wrong. My vision gets blurry with the big fat tears that decide to well up in my eyes, against my will.
She seems to have noticed that—she wipes them away. She calls me honey, asks me what's wrong, and coos in my ear. Her breath feels ticklish on my ear. "Please don't cry." I almost feel sorry for her—everything she's doing is wrong, because she isn't you.
She kisses me again and tells me everything will be better after a—in her words—tiny, little, baby serving of tequila, and floats off to the bar to get me one.
I leave the instant I get the chance. Back home, I sit in my bathtub. The water feels like mercury, and I rub my skin until it's red and raw. I close my eyes and before drifting off to sleep, I try not to think about you.
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