Expansion Ex. Week 8

Standing against the faded bike rack, a match echoing in my palm, I see her pink heels clicking, chipping away against the asphalt. She stand about five feet three. Her matching pink dress stretches, nestled six inches above her knees, hugging every curve and body line. Dragging on my cigarette, I wonder how much she paid for those working girl heels. What does she tell her friends? Or the new guy that she's bought them for? How many "just for you's" have fallen off of those full lips, swathed in Midnight Plum? I wonder if she really is working her way through college. What might she say, as those plastic spike slump against the baseboard? A film of her make up left to concrete in the dingy white porcelain. Would you swallow these cliches with a lump in your throat? Or would you tell me to fuck off? Maybe Both? I might deserve it. In the twilight of the sheets on your State issued mattress, do you remember when our eyes burned holes in your department store veneer?