ZAIJIAN HEWSON
Acir was drunk… too drunk to be exact.
She’s been slurring her words whenever I asked her a question, or whenever she would just blabber. Of course she looked adorable, but I was worried about her. Not in a sense that I knew she couldn’t handle herself—she had always been to parties, her alcohol tolerance might be high now—but in a way that I don’t trust myself enough around her.
The maroon dress she wore fitted her like a glove. I have been stealing glances at her soft, glowing legs whenever the knee-length dress would roll up even at the slightest movement. I offered her my coat when she was cold, but it did nothing to cover up the u-shaped neckline of her spaghetti strapped dress. Sitting across from her, I have the perfect view of her magnificent breast swaying and bo
