“Lucy.” His hand is the one on my breast five years ago, I realize. The sounds of laughter and music drifting over from the wedding. He’d slipped one of my straps down, and his thumb was tracing circles over my nipple. He had green paint underneath his fingernails. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he’d said to me, his lips against my neck. He reached for his zipper, and I realized he intended to fuck me right there, with the smells of rotting food drifting over from the nearby dumpster.
