The Girl with the Shortest Skirt

The trick is to not care. If you can get that down, the rest all falls into place. When she cries, don’t comfort her. When she pleads, be unmoved, stoic. When it hurts inside, swallow it. When you wake up at night, wondering if you made a mistake, beads of sweat mirroring her tears, you must learn to not care. All this emptiness fills you up. Emptiness from your mouth, your eyes. To be empty is better – safer.

Her eyes gleam when she laughs; green fire tries to warm you. Curves, lines, angles: smiles, tears, anger. You confuse one thing for another. Underneath it all, you still feel; you must get rid of that. Remove the veneer of her actions. Expose the thoughts that lie beneath. The machinations and manipulations eat you. They devour what you put in.

She sits at the glass table, hair falling to her bare shoulders, one olive left on her toothpick. Incisors bite down delicately – toothpick extracted. Olive flesh tears; pimento like blood. She giggles like a death rattle. You hear angels because you’re foolish. One hand draws out a cigarette; one hand reaches out for yours. Warmth and softness belie the truth.

Later, as you leave, a kiss. You hold on to it: love. She stands framed in her window. The lights are out behind her. When you come back, someone else. Someone else holds her; she explains. She begs, she cries, she pleads. When she pleads, be unmoved, stoic. When she cries, don’t comfort her. The trick is not tocare.