She and I never fucked. She never painted her fingernails either, and thought my lavender colored ones were ridiculous. Her band aid covered hand slithered across the cheap ink in my arms. I always wondered why, but back then I was far too thoughtful to ask. She closed her book, and gave me Olivia Gatwood when I was halfway through “Women.” A little diversity never killed anyone. Three cheers for agony and hand rolled cigarettes. I couldn’t get her off of my mind or her cherry red high horse. She assumed that I was full of myself for trying to do so. We kissed outside of my apartment that I wasn’t paying for, and my breath probably tasted like six dollar whiskey, but I don’t remember all too well. She told me she would come back as she walked down the steps. I tried to make the final kiss last because I know when someone doesn’t really care. She called me pompous a few weeks later which I fondly recall every now and then. When it got warmer I returned her books, and realized her band aids on her fingers were to cover up paper cuts. Excess of an affectation can be a cruel mistress. I let her paint a dove on my black wall I loved it. She told me our paths will cross again. Now, I sit here and apply a thicker coat of lavender nail polish.