Sour She came in the summer on an airless day when time dragged and flies beat themselves senseless against the pane. Bored, you let yourself be snagged by her red hair and lips; the rumour of excitement in a dreary seaside town was just enough to push you into action. Her saliva on an apple that you shared drove you to distraction. July heat made you feel weak and other things you wouldn’t care to mention to your mother, but it was fine, the face she showed to others was angelic, pure. Lonely, miserable, I didn’t stand a chance against the two of you. I wanted to be liked, that’s all, but you were after something more. She knew it, let you have a taste. It made my stomach turn. Brian Kirk
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