When he kissed you, you felt ugly. At 70 he thought he’d purchased you.
His lips crinkled with dried saliva creeping out from the corners, he moved towards you in slow motion, like a suckling pig, hungry for his mother’s milk, still too blind to aim.
“I could have turned the other way. I had the time.”
Instead, radiating from her diaphragm like acid reflux was what she mistook as empathy. The pain of rejection was something she never wanted to inflict on others.
And so, she deserved it.
As she turned cold and frigid, his shrivelled lips touched hers.
How many money?
He’d been so kind. She’d wanted a father.
Does an iPhone buy you a kiss?
She was leaving on for a month and as he shut the door to her limo, sending her off to the airport, she asked herself,
“a limo buys you what?”.