She tied her straight black hair into a bun, her eyes slighted tilted thanks to her korean mother, her arms were both tattoo'd in full sleaves, of ...arious designs, mostly black and celtic. She was just under five feet but was slender to, and was often confused to be a young teen if her tattoos were covered. The record was skipping, she stomped on the floor and the song carried on, Nick cave sang on rue fully. Her roomate would bang on the wall when her record player would skip, fucking. I didn’t know what I wanted. But perhaps I could push the boundaries between us, just a bit. I touched the piece of hair hanging in front of her face. She looked at me with plain curiosity, complete patience. “You had a piece of hair in your face,” I said. “Yes,” she whispered. I sat next to her, with my hand placed between us. “That was bothering me. Usually your hair looks so—perfect.” She nodded. “It goes well with your face. Because it’s perfect, you know?” She lowered the book, let it fall. More

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