Dirty Curve

by Meagan Brandy

“Tutor Girl ...” I drag out, cocking my head to the side. “Look at me.” Her shoulders stiffen and she gives herself an extra second by running her tongue across her rust-colored lips before sitting back in the chair. She tucks her chin in and a little to the right, slowly lifting her eyes to mine. It’s as if she’s afraid to meet my gaze head-on, but now that she’s forced herself to make the move, she doesn’t cower or quickly flick them away. She stares, pretty sure without breathing, and I stare right back. Girls got a soft-looking face, like she uses lotion or something on it, and her eyes, they’re a strange brown, like a rainy day, postponed game, mud brown. A rusty red-brown, kind of like her lips. She could use a couple days of sleep with the dark circles under her eyes and maybe a burger or some sun. Her body’s hidden, so I can’t tell if she’s bones under all that mess or if she has curve appeal. She fidgets, and unable to maintain eye contact, glances away, but I keep staring, watching her grow more on edge, more uneasy, and it hits me. Oh, hell no. “Are you a tweaker?” Her eyes slice to mine. “What?” “You heard me.”