||[May. 11th, 2006|11:44 pm]
I didn't know Misty's real name. Once, I asked for it, when she walked out of my shower pink and perfect. She just smiled and tapped my nose: "Does it matter?" I guess it didn't. |
We had fun, went to the sea, ate popsicles on the pier. With the popsicle dripping all over my left hand, I kissed her, just once.
The day was pink and perfect, like our watercolor popsicles. It couldn't last, I knew it would melt. I never threw away the little wooden popsicle-stick; my last tangible evidence of Misty I keep taped somewhere in my journal.