I was pretty sure my plan was sound and I was dressed to kill. Ironically, there was another sublime reassurance lurking in me that somehow related to...that nameless recent fascination welling from my cells as I gazed the girl in the mirror. Not that I ever willfully provoked it, but I felt a strange shadow of myself ogling the mirror in a breathless wistful way apart from my delicate delight and fem fancy, and in some unfathomable affinity I thought of the way boys at playgrounds eyed my giggly. You retrieve them from a plastic grocery bag and hand them to me. I bring them up to my face and inhale your scent. Should I call it a scent? Or an aroma? Or is it a bouquet? It is intoxicating whatever I call it, and then I run my tongue along the dampness and taste you for the first time. Second-hand taste, but satisfying, just like standing next to a smoker when you desperately need a puff on a cigarette, but don't have one yourself. I ask you to turn around. You ask why. I tell you that I. More

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