“It’s not fair that your face is so perfect, a piece of art on display that I’m not allowed to touch. I should only adore it from afar, even though its beauty calls to me. Even though I’m convinced it was created just for me.” Her eyelashes flutter as she sways, as if she’s drunk on more than rum or whiskey, as if she’s drunk on her own words. “It’s not fair that it holds two eyes that look at me the way they do, like they were made for seeing only me. It’s not fair that it has lips that I’ve memorized, that I can’t forget, and a tongue I’ve dreamed about tasting me over and over again.” June
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