Wednesday

Smith St Girl

Cropped blonde hair, thin Vogue cigarette. The voice of a schoolgirl – one that hasn’t had its sinews broken, yet. A loopy, softly spoken “latte, please”. 
The notes you were taking from a book on Psychology blew to the ground by my feet, and as you stood straight I noticed the breasts that been sucked back into your chest by poor posture. When you left I noticed the torn piece of paper on your saucer, and I was sure the number wasn’t for me.

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