The Sunrise Girl, Alba, is, at this very moment, peeling the velvet skin from a dripping, sweet ripe peach with her lips, not her teeth, her lips, and The Pretty Girl passes through her fruit perfumed field of vision causing perfumed fresh peach pink womb glow tasted on her tongue, wearing tight bluejeans perfectly. Perfectly, muscles dance slow and intimate together and her right hip falls a tad and she hits a pose, innocently, and cherished skin slides sexy, moistly. Shed that skin....
“Why don’t I put my lips to your deep blue jeans, Pretty Girl? Why don’t I put my lips to your sheer white cotton Princesa underwear, Pretty Girl? Why don’t I put my lips to your ever so slightly translucent light pink olive peach skin, Pretty Girl?” Thinks she, warmly sinking to the depths inside her ribcage butterfly lust and love for beauty peach pink but olive oil small death. “Wrap that fine light olive flesh torso, abdomen in clingfilm so airtight it keeps forever peach velvet clean and fresh deep sepia frozen in my desperate memory....”
Olive oil, pour olive oil on light pink olive peach skin snakes through such fine silvery ghosts of downy hair into her neatly tied navel, slightly breathing, rising up and down gently tensed stomach faintly shivering translucent skin breath of cool sepia sex oil lake preciously knotted navel where Sunrise submerges her index finger maroon black nail varnish, tip of tongue, nose, pour some more that glides and guides virgin olive oil curls through gossamer fine velvet downy cool and down slow and easy in another virgin direction tighter curls, first pressing quivering cold pressing, calm....
“Ahí, ahí....”
The Pretty Girl, naked, rests her shoulders on the edge of the kitchen table and, chin in hands, looks, unblinking, straight into Alba’s sad brown eyes. There is a small reddish stain of eczema on the pearl pale pink olive sheen skin that Alba notices on her right cheek and such fine ghosts of downy hair that The Sunrise Girl so desperately wants to tickle and tease them into life with her breath, breathe life into them with tip of tongue luster that glides and guides virgin olive oil through sheer white cotton Princesa underwear gossamer fine velvet down cool and slow and easy in another virgin direction gorgeous tight goose pimple blush young velvet skin from a dripping, sweet ripe peach, juice on her lips.
“Intenté anotarlo todo, intenté ver mi belleza. La belleza que ves en mi.”
“¡Eso no importa Jone! Prométeme que nunca te convertirás tan sólo en otra superviviente fea, amargada y retorcida!”
In a wicker basket cradled between Jone’s perfect, gorgeous forearms, there is an almost invisibly bruised peach. The fruit, with its precious bruise from which decay would spread if they gave it half a chance, is also suddenly so much more desperately, deliciously delicate and sad and beautiful, gorgeous, for its wound.
The Sunrise Girl, naked too, dabs her index finger into a sepia pool of glinting olive oil on the clear glass table and gently rubs a little into the tiny flaking blemish on The Pretty Girl’s cheek, leans across the table, over the basket of fruit, and kisses the same spot, licks it delicately. The Pretty Girl, sublime, lightly caresses Alba’s glistening breasts, her nipples, with the still somewhat slippery palms of her hands.
“¡Sabes, Alba, que preferiría mucho más ser una bella víctima que una fea superviviente!”
“Hagámoslo otra vez....”
“Por favor....”
THE CONVERSATION
“There, there....”
“I tried to write it all down, I tried to see my beauty. The beauty you see in me.”
“Give it no mind Jone! Promise me you’ll never become just another ugly bitter twisted survivor?”
“You know, Alba, I’d much prefer to be a beautiful victim than an ugly survivor!”
“Let’s do it again....”
“Please....”
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