i cough, run my fingers down an invisible skirt. a glass of water would be fine, yes, please.

 ---

the legs are spread wide. they are long, enclosing the ride every so tightly. the breath is soundless. she is lean, inactive and red on the lips. they are always red on the lips, such a sly pattern. the eyes are smoky, not as in eye shadow but as in actual smoke.

---

the shimmering plastic acquires pale colors in the light, it seems fleeting. slightly dirty hands wave in the scentless air, they're hers, they're no one's. every hue is perfect in its contrast with the others, even the soiled ones. every string of hair aches from straightening, and hangs down motionless, inorganically alive.

---

it's time. make sure nothing else looks as crimson as her mouth not quite shut. it must look like it's galloping, like there's a music box playing as she rides. it must look like a disgusting, obscene fantasy suspended by a pink thread of silk. juvenile enough to cause a sense of outrage. unpretentious enough to make it seem sinless.

---

the shrubbery around the park quivers. i should hope it's only the breeze.