SmokeLong Quarterly

Her blueberry eyes and lemon hair made her look like she should be playing a harp on a big hunk of cotton. I could tweak hard on her, man, if I had to be away from her. If I could even get a chance to get next to her to start.

I know how it’d all end up, though. The cops outside, a teardrop shimmying its way down her ripe peach cheek, her fine ass sitting on some peely-painted staircase, and me jag-eyed and sweating into my A-shirt, throat scraped out from non-filters and high-octane cussing. Yeah, I know I could be different with her, and then I know I wouldn’t.

She looks me over, and I sprout wings and feel my own halo.

One foot in front of the other. Even an evil fuck like me gets to try.