Asher
“Wow. You’re so full of yourself.” Her not so short, tan feet dangled in the air. She was sitting on top of a washing machine with a “broken” sign plastered on it, staring directly at the one she’d just shoved my clothes into. Hands tucked under her thighs, her indigo eyes fixed on the black mass of fabric spinning lazily through the round glass. I pondered that tan. Her features were quiet and pleasant, like Emma Watson’s. Her tan, I decided, was the product of her Indian lifestyle. I imagined her cycling around town in a short dress, her hair dancing in the wind. Ignoring my half-mast, I humored her.
“Yeah, well, that’s because people want to be full of me.” I plucked a cigarette from behind my ear and rolled it between my fingers. I needed a fag. But I also needed to get over my
