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Soft Skin

Soft Skin

We’d gone on and on, back and forth circling around the mulberry bush of fragrant nothingness.

He stopped talking, and finally I understood that thing inside that screams “Shut up and put your lips on mine!”

Instead, he stopped talking and looked up just a few millimeters to stare at my hair, before reaching out to touch it, as if it was artifact and I was exhibit.

“Wow, it’s softer than I thought it would be,” he said with a surprised look.

The statement silenced me. It wasn’t just my hair that came with the prejudice of ‘rough’, and I began to wonder what else he’d assumed about me based on shadows of skin.

Suddenly it seemed that eroticism had been exchanged with exoticism, and I wasn’t sure which motivated him, or why I felt a need to seek distinction. I only knew I didn’t want him to kiss me anymore, so I left, but with a sense of failure at mistaking interest for curiosity, and for confusing their similarities.

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