Your breath and hair.
My knuckles scraped and bloody.
What a pair.
Lunchtime came and went with little more than hair toss in my direction.
Uninterested, you fumbled with the sunglasses that shield the world form the hurt that you only experience when there’s not enough brandy left in the bottle.
You’re a lifeguard.
I’m no swimmer.
And I only started coming to this pool because of the frozen Charleston Chews.
Quickly bored and out of candy, I went back to being a teenager.
BLONDE ON BLONDE 