bikini

"Fine ass."

"I don't like her thighs. Too... jiggly."

"You never look at the right places. What a rack."

"You can practically see the scars from here."

"Ugh, don't look for those! Just ---"

**

"Look at those creepy guys."

"Aw, I don't think the guy on the right's all that weird."

"He's looking at your tits, like, right now."

"Um, no, his creepy ass friend is."

"He hangs out with that guy, so, like, by extension, he's creepy, too."

"So am I a dumb bitch by extension then?"

tonight

Lacing his fingers in hers, spreading his fingertips over her palm.

Where they've been, neither really knows. His hands on a lukewarm beer bottle, hers on a tiny martini glass. His fingers cracked in half in a truck door, her fingers four inches into a open bloody wound on her leg. His palm trapped under the butt of a gun, her palm slapped across the cheek of her father.

In a slow moment, they realize the scars there, slightly above the skin of their hands. It is a mutual moment, and his eyes draw carefully to hers, and she only flicks up her gaze, long lashes dark in the sunlight. He's more reluctant than her suddenly, but she brings her fingers over his and accepts the bruises, the burns, the broken bones all in a neat few seconds.

His mouth moves slightly in surprise... and, from that moment on, she's there with him forever.