Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Bloor Line, fresh from the rain, misted.

Black girl, 15-16, tucked in the doorway, legs outstretched, hair pulled into a side ponytail. Under her black hoodie her tshirt reads a gemmed "R.I.P." The image a faded photo of a young boy.

Thieves' Paradise, Eric Jerome Dickey (Signet)

Page 171:

Electricity ran up my legs, seemed like every hair on my body stood tall, muscles locked up as I strained to set free what was inside of me; toes curled and I gripped the carpet, her hips, pulled her hair so hard I thought I was about to snatch out a handful, brought her face to mine and we kissed so hard, kissed until we both got lost in what we felt and let out enough sounds to make the neighbour's three little dogs start barking like wolves underneath a full moon.

The text had come after her curfew and she was already late. A picture. Some girls would be flattered and he was cute, worth the risk. It wasn't until after she'd agreed to meet, they'd shared some herb, that she saw it in person, wondering if maybe one of his buddies had sent the message.

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