"Do you do what I do?" he asked. She stared at him through the murky dusk, a solitary question mark rising above her head. "Flirt with everyone so no one knows who you really like?"
"I don't flirt," she retorted, and demanded they play another game. He squinted at her in the dark and shot a knowing look at his co-conspirator. She pretended she didn't notice as she shifted on the bench and looked away at the welcome distraction of a dare being carried out against the blurring horizon.

Certain conversations, especially lies, hit so unnervingly close to home you never forget them. And every time you're reminded of them you're awash with whatever emotion it was that imprinted those few spoken words into your very being. Right now I'm shifty, fluttery in my movements and not wanting to consider how right he was all those lifetimes ago, or whether or not I really am a tease. Or if I'm more serious than I think I am. Or if I'm just a fucking tease. I don't know. Fuck it. I'm going to bed.

I smell like flirting.

ink :: graphite