“Why no kissing?” Her uneasy movements had paused, her curiosity unwilling to let it go. She thought she’d found something, a piece of the puzzle that made me. In truth, she was probably close. If she pulled at this thread hard enough, she might free another. “Lipstick,” I said. “I hate it.” Specifically, red. A heart-shaped stain on my cheek. The red imprint left on the edge of a dirty glass or a lit cigarette lying on cracked pavement. The twisting of a little black container. I fucking hated all of it.
