Indie’s lips taste don’t taste like sugar. They’re not glossed or moisturized, painted or flavored. None of that stupid girly crap. They’re raw. Her lips are raw and full and gritty like you’d expect them to be coming from a girl as real as she is. Of course, this is not the same as her kisses. Those are different—each one varied and beautiful. They can be soft, like pressing a freshly plucked petal against your lips. Tingling. Comforting. They can be warm like her whispering breath, or heavy and intense like pelting rain caught in summer wind.
“Indie,” I breathe. She’s become distracted by the curve of my neck, kissing me, undressing me with her lips. “Indie.”
“I want to see you.”
“Hmm?" She's still kissing. I don't want her to stop.
I lift her chin, looking into her child-like eyes. “I want to see you.”
She flinches, suddenly so present that it makes me hurt. She eyes me up, thinking, wondering.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“Because,” she looks deeper into my eyes, down at my wanting lips, “you can’t unsee once you see me.”
“But I want to. I need to know you. Indie, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
She's gone. Again. Back into her world. I should support that, that she has her own thoughts, but today...
“What is it? What’s wrong.”“I’m not who you think I am.” She looks back up at me, something dark and empty and vulnerable in her eyes—something I’ve never seen before.
<3 Gina Blechman