The red is smoking now and it rescinds. Turim whines at you pitifully. Her scales are a deep bloody red, looking so soft, but if you touch them, they burn. Cold burning… she is nearby in the bed. She creeps in close and whines at you through her pointed nose. She loves you so much that she wishes she was you.
And she always misses you, even though you are in the same city.
You awaken and the disgusting glare of so many colors oozes round your eyes, washing them in thick, foul discordant nonsense. Your eyes are stinging and you throw the covers off, rush out of your bed to wash your face.
But that is worse. Even water has color. So many morninglights in one liquid. Grays, whites, silvers, the overpowering quicksilver of the faucet screaming at you to wake the hell up. Too bright.
The red rescinds, into twin blood drops on your fingertips. Maybe it was that you scratched your face?
You think of the woman on the train, with the exceptional ass and how she smells like lychee—how you went and bought a lychee bubble tea (you’d have never, ever touched it otherwise)… you sipped it through the wide straw. That evening, you let the slippery round tapioca balls slip over your tongue. These felt very… too good, and you were standing in the sidewalk cold and alone. You wondered if that was the feel of her… warming you up now… how you wondered it. You stood there for a long time, waiting for the rush of arousal to end…
6:30 and the alarm goes off. It blares through even the bathroom walls.
Your dog’s nose is cold and she’s not supposed to be sleeping in the bed with you.
The woman on the train would slap the glasses off of your face if you ever tried anything.
You really do need a girlfriend.
And, Brandon, you’re going to be late for work.