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Pink bubblegum rolls on my tongue as I walk along the black asphalt that’s still steaming from the warm August rain. I can feel it wet along the edges of my toes as they push forward in my white stiletto sandals, the leather damp and just beginning to stretch. The moisture is everywhere and the humidity is high. It’s under my skin. The back of my neck is hot under the weight of my long blonde hair that’s quickly losing its glossy perfection and becoming tousled and wavy. It’s that just-fucked calling card that makes people take a second glance at me as I turn the corner onto your street. But I haven’t been fucked. Not just yet.

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