Throwing Off The Boy
The Red Door
Ravel comes by my flower stand every day at three o’clock and buys a lily, each day a different kind. After kissing its petals, he hands it to me as a gift. I blush and bite my lip embarrassed, and then smile like an innocent coquette. He’s honoring me and my name, Lily.
I can only think of s*x when he’s nearby.
I watch his eyes, how they comb my body as if he adores me, though I often wonder why. So slight of build, my breasts will forever be pubescent, mere handfuls in a man’s grasp. I never wear bras. When he stares at me, I know my small n*****s contract and press against the softness of my shirts like tiny pebbles poking through the sand. I can’t imagine what he thinks of my slim waist and hips, though I often suspect he strips away my clothes in
