She flitted into the room, as they do; these Plychester girls. On tippie toes in coloured flats and knee socks; her black hair abuzz around her cherub face and ruddy cheeks from the cold. She exuded warmth while remaining airy, like the breath of a lover on the back of your neck as you sleep.

The jug whistled and she made a Bettie Page face at me. Everything was drama with this chick, but I didn’t give a damn; every single thing. The way she walked (or flit), the way she said: “Not Green, Black. I need something stronger, and sweeter. I gotta favour to ask.”; everything is a big deal and she played on it, and it made me wild.

I sat across from her, but stood back up again. I poured hot water, I sat back down. I stood up again;
something about her today was a little more intense, still Jessica, but a little thicker and more veiled. She tugged at the sleeve of her sweater, something was up, but she still had a smile for me. That Smile, that Jessica Smile.