Girls Like Girls

We'll Always Have Almost

She wasn't perfect. She was flawed, she was dented, scratched and bruised. Damaged in all aspects of the word.

You shouldn't want her.

You shouldn't crave her.

You shouldn't have felt a lot of things; but you did.

Two days ago you were merely here scouting a location for your next corporate event, it should have been boring and it should have lasted a day but it didn't.

Because of her.

Because of the woman sat in front of you right now, rested on a white painted wooden beach chair. Sipping on a tall glass of iced tea that looked oversized in her dainty hands, the contrast between her light skin and the dark drink stark in the warm afternoon glow of the beach.

You think it's laughable that her skin was almost as white as the paint on the smooth wood and your fingers begin to trace the frame of your own seat, wishing, praying that it was her skin instead of the hard surface.

You wished to feel the way her flesh would obey under your ministrations, you wanted to know the way her skin felt against the palm of your hand, against the soft pliant flesh of your lips.

You wanted her in the bluntest way, her lips, her hands, her everything. You wanted her the way the waves wanted to reach the shore, constantly reaching, thrashing, crashing, running for a simple taste.

"Aren't you glad you went to that small smelly bar and met me?" She asks with a playful shrug of her shoulders, "You wouldn't have as much fun as you are right now."

A light-hearted chuckle bubbles it's way up your throat, like warm honey crawling up your stomach before wrapping around your heart, "I'm pretty bored just sitting here watching you get a sunburn minus all the fun of swimming."

She smiles then tilts her head up towards the warm September sun, the golden hues bouncing off the smooth skin of her exposed shoulders and you, again, feel that want for her.

She was this broken but beautiful doll. No more parents, no siblings, just her. A luxurious life of a young heiress. A lonely life of a daughter that lost everything, a life that craved to be shared. She was trouble. She was imperfection. She was the storm that brought the rainbow or the worn sweater that you would wear to warm your heart.

You craved her like rain wanted to fall, like words begged to be read. You wanted her and there was nothing, nothing at all that existed that could quench the fire you had inside you for her.

The smile never faltered as she stood from her seat and turned her body towards you, "who says I'm not having any fun? I don't need to swim; I'm enjoying myself here."

She's been smiling at you like that since you met. Like she had taken the very essence and warmth of the sun and swallowed it so only she could smile so brightly. Her eyes travels from your own and it's almost as if you can feel her gaze scorching and burning a path along your face until they reach your lips.

You think she's about to do it, right here with all her friends around, that she's half a second away from breaking this tension between the two of you but when her eyes stray up and behind you, she pulls back almost in fear.

"Sally." A masculine voice calls from somewhere behind you and it makes your skin crawl. Robert walks unsteadily past you and you can tell that he's either drunk or high. Either way he's been like that since you met him two days ago when he spilled his drink on you.