blonde teen
She carried a large stoneware mug in each hand, steaming with the frothy,
fragrant chocolate. Handing me one, she announced: “Music we need,” and walked
over to a cassette player. I expected something weird, but was surprised to
hear the strains of bossa-nova and the voice of Astrud Gilberto.
As we sat, we drank the chocolate and smoked, a kindred vice which somehow
branded us as being of like kidney. Our conversation consisted of the usual
mundacities: school, friends, relations, etc. I found myself becoming warmer,
doubtless because of the beverage and the fact that she kept the flat at a
temperature amenable to her finch. Rivulets of sweat coursed down my sides from
my armpits. I wondered if she detected the rutting-odor of my arousal.