Girls Are Different
& exactly the same.
He meets her in one of the city’s coldest winters, bundled up in a coat, her lips pale as the snow. But her cheeks are pink and her voice is warm, warmer than even the candle that lights their dinner. When he takes her to his room, she takes off her clothes, an item at a time. The scarf, the wool, the dress, the stockings, the underthings. He thinks he might cut himself on her protruding ribs, but he does not say a word.
He does not say a word even when he hears her in the bathroom, when she comes up to kiss him with breath that’s a little foul. Not even when she pushes away a plate that’s barely been touched, when she recoils if his hand happens to brush over her stomach.
He only holds her when she’s finally onion paper thin, barely breathing. He feels selfish for being sad when she’s finally gotten what she wanted.
●
He bumps into her in the street on a busy day, and both of them drop whatever’s in their arms. He’s flustered and starts picking up her things first, muttering apologies. He lifts his eyes to her face and suddenly braces himself; she looks as if she’s about to punch him. But the anger is fleeting, and she only smirks at his expression. They pick up the rest of their things and agree that she’ll pick him up that night at 7:30 pm, give or take.
He dresses his best and realizes it’s utterly inappropriate when it’s too late. They go to a concert full of harsh alcohol and harsh people, but they cannot match up to her kiss. She has metal on her face and ink on her skin, and he still fears she’ll break him, but it’s she who breaks down to him. She wants him to make her forget an old love, but they’re both let down.
He cannot measure up to another girl’s touch.
●
He sits next to her in the bus and finds her extraordinary. She asks him what he’s staring at, and the almost one-sided conversation begins. She talks about her day, about her home, about which bargain bin she got the colourful bangles on her wrists, and he listens. He asks to see her again when they arrive at her stop, and she says yes.
He cannot stop staring at her when the day arrives. Her skin is chocolate, and he longs to taste it. She makes him wait for a while, but sooner or later she lets him do just that. He finds that her smile is honey, that her lips down there are lilac, and that she has the dirtiest mouth when she’s feeling especially ecstatic. He curls around her when they’re done, and sifts his hand through her braids until he falls asleep.
He awakens the sound of bangles clinking, then a door closing.
●
He notices her walking by the sidewalk, and enters the same lingerie shop a minute after she does. He pretends to look at all the lace, but she’s always in the corner of his eye. She does not appear to be sick, or old enough to be receding. She has freckles and earrings of feathers and chandeliers. Her hair is auburn, and her head completely shaved.
He looks closer, and sees cheekbones like the thrones of Olympians, a proud mouth like Cleopatra. He wonders why she does not keep her hair long, and knows that it’s none of his business. She does not look at all the other women in the shop with envy, nor does she need anyone else to tell her that she is beautiful.
He thinks to go after her when she leaves, but realizes that he has just been looking at lingerie and just about anyone would find that completely suspicious.
●
He is dancing awkwardly in a club, and when he catches a glimpse of her he doubts his vision and counts how many shots he’s had. He can hardly believe that she really exists. It’s hard to lose sight of her, and hard to keep up with her too. There’s so much of her to hold but he restrains himself, only his palms on her hips. She’s eons more graceful than him. When she’s not fond of the song they sit down and make small talk. She tells him she’s a supermodel, and he feels doubly lucky that she has chosen him.
He does not wait for her to shed her clothes, ripping it off her the moment he can. Her skin smells like powder and he digs his fingertips in her thick flesh as they writhe. She’s quite loud, and quite impossible not to cuddle up to in the aftermath. He shows her off to his friends, and is careful not to shrink any of her clothes in the wash.
He is not allowed to keep her for very long because the agency owns her first. She’s off to Venice, Barcelona, London, but they have one last tryst before she goes. She’s still eons more graceful than him.
●
He passes by her in the supermarket, and does not think much of it. It’s only when he tries to reach for the cereal on the top shelf by himself, far too embarrassed to ask for help, that she really comes into his world. She stretches her arm and hands him the box of cocoa puffs without having to stand on her toes.
He takes her to a restaurant with fantastic service and array of curry dishes, because he’d spotted a lot of chilli peppers in her cart. When they’re done eating he invites her to take a walk with him. Everything about her is long: her hair, her nose, her legs, her fingers. He wants to entwine her fingers with his, but they’re buried in the pockets of her coat. They kiss good night; just a peck. He thinks it’s wonderful to be the one to looking up at a girl for a change.
He calls her the next day, but they do not have dinner again. It seems one of their waiters was a little too fantastic, and also a little bit taller than she.
●
He lines up at the bank to make a deposit, and watches her brightly polished nails as she adds up his bills. They match her lipstick. Her hair still isn’t out of the office bun when they chat over coffee, but a few strands have fallen out of place. Her husband’s in the army, she says, and her second son’s just gone off to college. She’s lonely.
He is told that she’s alone in their house, which is the only reason he is able to come in and share her bed. There are faint lines on her face but her eyes are young, passionate. She teaches him exactly how to touch her, and she knows just where to press and grind to make him see white. On some days she gives him cookies she’s just baked, and on others they look at old photo albums of her children. She lets him see her with her hair down, sometimes.
He stops visiting when her husband comes home. It’s about time he starts looking for his own.
●
He sees her, and immediately he thinks, ‘I need to talk to this girl.’ She moves hesitantly, she does not instantly meet his eyes, and even her smile is a secret. He finds her in the same spot every day, and every day he adds a minute to their conversation. He takes his time. When he finally does ask her out, it takes her a while to reply. He fears she might decline, but her yes comes with a shy smile.
He sets a meeting place at the cinema. He thought of bringing flowers, but then thought she might find it bothersome to carry around, and saves the idea for a later date. She shows up with a bit of lip gloss and a kind of pretty he’s never seen before. She lets him put his arm around her shoulders when they’re sitting, around her waist when they’re walking. He lends her his jacket when she’s cold, secretly thrilled to take her scent with him wherever he went. He always sees her to her doorstep, and for their first kiss they’re both so nervous he ends up missing her mouth altogether.
He does not dare to ask himself inside until after a few months, afraid he might scare her away. She’s afraid too, but for another reason. ‘I like you,’ she says, so quiet it’s almost ashamed. It breaks his heart. ‘I don’t want to lie. I hope you still like me too.’
He undresses her, an item at a time. Her top, her skirt, her bra that was stuffed with tissues, her panties that were hiding a bulge. He still likes her. They kiss, properly now, and she undresses him next. They touch each other, over the sheets and under. She gasps when he bites at a nipple on her flat chest, when he takes her length in his palm. She feels heavy in his hand, not unlike himself. ‘It’s nicer than mine,’ he admits before he can stop himself from blurting it out, but she laughs before he can wonder if she’s taken offense. He knows exactly what to do to bring her to climax. When it’s over they lie together, sated. She no longer smiles like a secret, but like a bird.
He tells her, ‘you’re the best girl I’ve ever known.'
He does not say a word even when he hears her in the bathroom, when she comes up to kiss him with breath that’s a little foul. Not even when she pushes away a plate that’s barely been touched, when she recoils if his hand happens to brush over her stomach.
He only holds her when she’s finally onion paper thin, barely breathing. He feels selfish for being sad when she’s finally gotten what she wanted.
●
He bumps into her in the street on a busy day, and both of them drop whatever’s in their arms. He’s flustered and starts picking up her things first, muttering apologies. He lifts his eyes to her face and suddenly braces himself; she looks as if she’s about to punch him. But the anger is fleeting, and she only smirks at his expression. They pick up the rest of their things and agree that she’ll pick him up that night at 7:30 pm, give or take.
He dresses his best and realizes it’s utterly inappropriate when it’s too late. They go to a concert full of harsh alcohol and harsh people, but they cannot match up to her kiss. She has metal on her face and ink on her skin, and he still fears she’ll break him, but it’s she who breaks down to him. She wants him to make her forget an old love, but they’re both let down.
He cannot measure up to another girl’s touch.
●
He sits next to her in the bus and finds her extraordinary. She asks him what he’s staring at, and the almost one-sided conversation begins. She talks about her day, about her home, about which bargain bin she got the colourful bangles on her wrists, and he listens. He asks to see her again when they arrive at her stop, and she says yes.
He cannot stop staring at her when the day arrives. Her skin is chocolate, and he longs to taste it. She makes him wait for a while, but sooner or later she lets him do just that. He finds that her smile is honey, that her lips down there are lilac, and that she has the dirtiest mouth when she’s feeling especially ecstatic. He curls around her when they’re done, and sifts his hand through her braids until he falls asleep.
He awakens the sound of bangles clinking, then a door closing.
●
He notices her walking by the sidewalk, and enters the same lingerie shop a minute after she does. He pretends to look at all the lace, but she’s always in the corner of his eye. She does not appear to be sick, or old enough to be receding. She has freckles and earrings of feathers and chandeliers. Her hair is auburn, and her head completely shaved.
He looks closer, and sees cheekbones like the thrones of Olympians, a proud mouth like Cleopatra. He wonders why she does not keep her hair long, and knows that it’s none of his business. She does not look at all the other women in the shop with envy, nor does she need anyone else to tell her that she is beautiful.
He thinks to go after her when she leaves, but realizes that he has just been looking at lingerie and just about anyone would find that completely suspicious.
●
He is dancing awkwardly in a club, and when he catches a glimpse of her he doubts his vision and counts how many shots he’s had. He can hardly believe that she really exists. It’s hard to lose sight of her, and hard to keep up with her too. There’s so much of her to hold but he restrains himself, only his palms on her hips. She’s eons more graceful than him. When she’s not fond of the song they sit down and make small talk. She tells him she’s a supermodel, and he feels doubly lucky that she has chosen him.
He does not wait for her to shed her clothes, ripping it off her the moment he can. Her skin smells like powder and he digs his fingertips in her thick flesh as they writhe. She’s quite loud, and quite impossible not to cuddle up to in the aftermath. He shows her off to his friends, and is careful not to shrink any of her clothes in the wash.
He is not allowed to keep her for very long because the agency owns her first. She’s off to Venice, Barcelona, London, but they have one last tryst before she goes. She’s still eons more graceful than him.
●
He passes by her in the supermarket, and does not think much of it. It’s only when he tries to reach for the cereal on the top shelf by himself, far too embarrassed to ask for help, that she really comes into his world. She stretches her arm and hands him the box of cocoa puffs without having to stand on her toes.
He takes her to a restaurant with fantastic service and array of curry dishes, because he’d spotted a lot of chilli peppers in her cart. When they’re done eating he invites her to take a walk with him. Everything about her is long: her hair, her nose, her legs, her fingers. He wants to entwine her fingers with his, but they’re buried in the pockets of her coat. They kiss good night; just a peck. He thinks it’s wonderful to be the one to looking up at a girl for a change.
He calls her the next day, but they do not have dinner again. It seems one of their waiters was a little too fantastic, and also a little bit taller than she.
●
He lines up at the bank to make a deposit, and watches her brightly polished nails as she adds up his bills. They match her lipstick. Her hair still isn’t out of the office bun when they chat over coffee, but a few strands have fallen out of place. Her husband’s in the army, she says, and her second son’s just gone off to college. She’s lonely.
He is told that she’s alone in their house, which is the only reason he is able to come in and share her bed. There are faint lines on her face but her eyes are young, passionate. She teaches him exactly how to touch her, and she knows just where to press and grind to make him see white. On some days she gives him cookies she’s just baked, and on others they look at old photo albums of her children. She lets him see her with her hair down, sometimes.
He stops visiting when her husband comes home. It’s about time he starts looking for his own.
●
He sees her, and immediately he thinks, ‘I need to talk to this girl.’ She moves hesitantly, she does not instantly meet his eyes, and even her smile is a secret. He finds her in the same spot every day, and every day he adds a minute to their conversation. He takes his time. When he finally does ask her out, it takes her a while to reply. He fears she might decline, but her yes comes with a shy smile.
He sets a meeting place at the cinema. He thought of bringing flowers, but then thought she might find it bothersome to carry around, and saves the idea for a later date. She shows up with a bit of lip gloss and a kind of pretty he’s never seen before. She lets him put his arm around her shoulders when they’re sitting, around her waist when they’re walking. He lends her his jacket when she’s cold, secretly thrilled to take her scent with him wherever he went. He always sees her to her doorstep, and for their first kiss they’re both so nervous he ends up missing her mouth altogether.
He does not dare to ask himself inside until after a few months, afraid he might scare her away. She’s afraid too, but for another reason. ‘I like you,’ she says, so quiet it’s almost ashamed. It breaks his heart. ‘I don’t want to lie. I hope you still like me too.’
He undresses her, an item at a time. Her top, her skirt, her bra that was stuffed with tissues, her panties that were hiding a bulge. He still likes her. They kiss, properly now, and she undresses him next. They touch each other, over the sheets and under. She gasps when he bites at a nipple on her flat chest, when he takes her length in his palm. She feels heavy in his hand, not unlike himself. ‘It’s nicer than mine,’ he admits before he can stop himself from blurting it out, but she laughs before he can wonder if she’s taken offense. He knows exactly what to do to bring her to climax. When it’s over they lie together, sated. She no longer smiles like a secret, but like a bird.
He tells her, ‘you’re the best girl I’ve ever known.'