Slips

The first day of college feels like a punch in the stomach - unexpected, unprepared for. My throat dry from weeks spent in a drunken haze, eyes wincing in the strange September sunlight, even with my aviators on. I walk through the bustling streets of early morning London, teeth chewing at my chapped lips. I stand at the pedestrian crossing, close my eyes, breathe in the petrol-infused air, and let my mind mill over the images of my Summer. Her thin body in his arms, sleeping contentedly after a night of mild substance abuse; his eyes as he invites me upstairs; her bare skin, perspiration making it glisten in the moonlight. A smile plays across my lips then, as my mind is prompted by the memory of that first night on the tartan blanket, to think of the many hours since that have been spent similarly. The traffic lights turn red, and I follow as my fellow commuters cross the road. As the mellow sounds of Maroon 5 infiltrate my ears, my thoughts drift to a week ago, my abrupt revelation, and her succinct, demeaning response: "you don't know what love is." I smile as I remember my frank rationale, "neither of us do."
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn my head to find her fresh face smiling at me. She slips her hand into mine, and we walk up to the gates of the glass sixth-form building. Feeling the warmth of her skin on mine, I am filled with conviction in the belief that, perhaps nobody knows what love is, but it can't hurt to try and find out.

Abdomen

My front teeth gnaw at my thumbnail, as my mind resounds with Emily's words; "you love her". My feet march, on autopilot, towards her house. I unlatch the small gate and walk up the garden path to her front door, clench my hand into a fist and throw three powerful knocks at the green-painted wood. As I wait to be greeted, my thoughts drift to two nights ago; her unexpected arrival at my house... even less predictable behaviour. I remember thinking, through an alcohol infused fog, that I didn't know why she was with me, that she couldn't actually want me; but I didn't care why she was kissing me, why her hand was working its way down my abdomen, why she had that uncertain look on her face. All that mattered was that I wanted her, and that, suddenly after months of being unattainable, she was there to be had. The door opens slowly, I hear her voice behind it, chattering on the phone I discover once she becomes visible.
"I have to go," she states upon seeing me, and hangs up.
My inhibitions fall to the floor unexpectedly. My mind stops functioning entirely as my heart takes over and I fall forward, pressing my lips to hers. She pushes me away after a long moment, and smiles slightly, eyes glistening as they fill with tears.
"I didn't think you were coming ba -"
"I think I love you."

Goose

My eyes open to a newly brightened day, warm sunlight spilling through the window and over the sofa where I lay. The sound of heavy footsteps descending the staircase sluggishly, resounds through the quiet house. I squint my eyes to see out of the half-open door, and find Tom's nude figure stepping down from the bottom step, to the wooden floor of the hallway. I pull the duvet over my head to stifle the cruel sound of irrepressible laughter; after knowing him for all of my teenage years, I am unable to evoke any other reaction at the sight of his gangly white body. I escape the confines of my goose feather tomb and bound up the stairs into Emily's bedroom. I climb beneath the heavy duvet with its plain white quilt cover and lay beside her sleeping silhouette.
"Just saw your hot boyfriend's bony bod'", I whisper into the ear not pressed to the pillow.
A smile creeps onto her sleepy face, followed by a gentle cackle, "sorry you had to witness that," she states, speech slurred, eyes still closed.
"She text me last night," I bite the skin surrounding my thumbnail.
"And you replied?"
"No... should I?"
I see her eyes open as the late morning sun filters through the duvet covering our faces, "you love her," comes her succinct response.
Her eyes close again and we lay in silence, the sound of Tom pottering around in the kitchen the only thing distracting my ears from my pounding heartbeat.

Blustery

I sit on the sagging sofa of Emily and Tom's small terraced house, wrapped in a duvet and scrawling through facebook on my phone. The barren student-type house creeks and heaves as the sudden blustery weather throws itself along the row of red-brick homes. I take a sip of the black filter coffee I made myself as soon as I awoke to find it wasn't yet 8AM; my index finger navigates the touch screen and brings me to the 'notifications' section. A wall post from 'Is James'. I follow the link and read the succinct public message to myself, "Text me back, dyke". I leave the webpage and wonder when I'll get round to speaking to her again, if ever. My mind is awash with nothing but confusion at my own thoughts and feelings - all I wanted this summer was her, then when I finally receive the opportunity to actually be something with her, I run away. Emily and Tom must still be asleep; the whole house is silent bar the patter of rain on the single-glazed windows. I rest my head on the arm of the sofa and feel myself gently relax into sleep. 

Tugging

We drive back in the direction of her house, the sun now set on our lazy afternoon. I stare blankly through the windshield, teeth tugging at the inside of my lower lip as my mind ponders fruitlessly. My fingers find the message from her on my phone, a helpless, 'where did you go?', yet to recieve a reply. We turn onto the street which houses the train station, she drums her palms rhythmically to the quiet sounds of the radio, and turns to face me.
"Mum and Dad indoors?" she looks back at the road in front of her.
"I don't know... neither of them came home last night..."
She doesn't respond, instead maintains her non-judgemental pretense. I assure her as the station comes into view that, 'I'll be fine', but her responsible, adult mind isn't appeased.
"You'll stay with me and Tom. At least until you've called to find out when they'll be back."
My lips stretch into a small smile, grateful for another day to think things over away from home. From her.

Basking

We sit opposite one another in Em's favourite pub/restaurant basking in the low, early evening sun, empty plates and constantly full glasses on the table in front of us. She smiles, pleased after all her nagging, that I ate a decent meal. Tears threaten once more as I realise how comfortable I am in her company, and that if I had merely spent time catching up with good friends, my summer would have been as good as I'd been hoping, with far less tears. She notices my chin trembling and gives my shin a kick under the table, "get a grip - we're in public," she says, feigning embarrassment. Her white teeth stretch into a smile so wide it overtakes all of her facial features, illuminating herself and everyone else in the room with its radiance.
"I've missed you," I utter, almost a whisper.
"I've missed you too!" she clutches my hands across the table, "don't leave it so long next time, missy."
I smile appreciatively at the fact that, however long we go without seeing one another, my oldest friend will always be there in my time of need; acting as though we were never apart.
"Buy me another drink?" I bat my eyelashes in the knowledge that she won't refuse - what's the point in having a nineteen-year-old best friend if she doesn't treat you every so often?
She walks over to the bar, credit card in hand, and I sit, trying to breathe without thinking about my other best friend - the one I've manipulated and punished nonchalantly. My phone lights up then with a text: her name flashes onto the screen.

Drum

Driving along the built up streets of inner-London in her battered vauxhall vectra, my thoughts are drowned out by the musings of a radio DJ interspersed with Emily's tuneless humming. We don't speak for the entire journey, my mind becoming contentedly numb, her's full, I'm sure with my teary story-telling. Her skin is irridescent in the light of the sun through the windshield, hands glow with a gentle tan, palms drum a rhythm to match her song, on the steering wheel. I close my eyes and let my skin bathe in the afternoon sun, the strength of it depicting an orange glow behind my eyelids.   

Gulp

    "Let's go for something to eat," she suggests, wide-eyed.
After hearing of my recent drama, she has not yet uttered a judgemental word. She hops up from her spot beside me on the sofa, announces that she needs to have a shower and saunters out of the room, bare feet padding on the uncarpeted stairs as she makes her way to the bathroom. I breathe a long sigh, exhaling any tension from my chest. I take another gulp from the near-empty bottle of wine and catch a glimpse of myself in the old mirror Emily has leant against the wall, too lazy to hang it. My eyes sit limply in my head, not adorned with any make-up bar the remnants of mascara that now lay on my cheeks beneath bloodshot eyes. My cheeks burn in the aftermath of my breakdown, conscience racked with guilt, I bite my lip to gain control of my trembling chin and blurry eyes. She reappears downstairs, short hair still damp from her shower, but fully-dressed. 
   "Ready?" she asks, smiling before slipping on her aviators and walking toward the front door.         

Sodden

I walk to the train station, buy a bottle of wine on the way and head in the direction of an old friend. My mind is plagued with a million thoughts - my betrayal, and consequent admission; his lips; her lips; those teary eyes. I open the screw top of my cheap bottle and take a large gulp as I stride toward the station entrance, sun beating down on my back. I tap my oyster on the reader and walk through the barrier, descend the escalator quickly in an attempt to arrive at her house whilst she's still in. Perhaps I should have called. My top teeth clamp down on my full bottom lip, fingers clutch the glass bottle possessively. Two stops and a short walk later, I am standing at her front door, waiting for her to greet me. She smiles, my arrival a welcome surprise, eyes wince at the harsh mid-day sun.
"Come in," she says groggily, standing in her boyfriend's boxers and a white vest.
I do as she says, and she pulls me into a warm embrace as soon as my foot is in the door. Arms still holding me tightly, she places a kiss on the top of my head; I feel the warmth of her mouth through my hair, and tears begin to fill my weary eyes.
"I've ruined everything, Em. I don't know what to -"
"Shh..." she interjects, and plays with my hair comfortingly whilst pushing the front door shut with her free hand.
We sit in her squalor of a living room, amongst empty beer bottles, dirty dishes and classic novels. She passes me a cigarette and as we light up, I begin to tell my story, her emerald eyes focused intensely on my tear-sodden face.

Greasy

"You're lying," she spits without a moment's hesitation.
I stare at her with silent conviction, take one last sip of my drink and replace it on the side before walking out of the sunlit kitchen to retrieve my phone from the garden. She follows, tears evident in her tone as she asks fragmented questions to the back of my head. I maintain my silence as I step through the french doors of the conservatory, reach down to the blanket, pick up my iPhone and scroll through the inbox until I find his name and our incriminating exchange. I throw the handset into her unsteady palms and walk back into the house. I march up the stairs to my room, pull off the t-shirt I replaced when the sun went down last night, just before she did... I shake thoughts of her from my mind, angry that she's forgiven him, and knowing that I've ruined things between us forever. I spray my greasy maine with dry shampoo, throw on an old band t-shirt, grab my oyster card and run back down the stairs.
"Where are you going?" she looks at me incredulously from the bottom of the stairway.
"Out."
Tears have filled her chocolate-brown eyes, she licks her lips and bites at the inside of her cheek. My mind wanders uncontrollably once more to the happenings of last night: her warm mouth, agile tongue. She stands motionless as I take my phone back and head for the door.
"How could you?" her voice breaks, breath quickens and wheezes as long-awaited tears roll down her face.
I ignore her question, open the door and step outside. She grabs my hand, pulls me back toward her and without a word, presses her mouth to mine.

Deludedly

A tense silence falls over us for a long while, but is broken by her irrepressible curiosity. She asks me, "who?" sullenly, her wide eyes looking up at me, silently pleading with my conscience. I contemplate telling her outright, imagine the words spilling from my mouth, and the devastation on her beautiful, sad face as she discovers once more that she does care who the girl was: that the girl was her best friend. 
     "How..."
      I decide, perhaps deludedly, that if I told her, I'd have some sort of power over them both... "It was me." 

Interject

I anticipate an all too familiar onslaught of tears as she begins to divulge the details of their sordid affair. I brace myself, so as not to involuntarily indulge my emotions. Irregular gusts of air whistle through the window, allowing us to breathe through the humidity of the early-August day. We do not move from our respective positions in the kitchen, as her voice, trembling to start with, regales me with tales of their late night rendezvous. She stares coldly at the window behind me, the glazed-over expression on her face prompts me to deduce that she isn't looking at anything in particular. 
    "I know I told you I wasn't going to speak to him - I ignored all his calls, texts and emails... But that first night I spent at home after staying here... I was so lonely. And he said she didn't mean anything - that I was the most incredible person he's ever met... she was nothing compared to me. He told me everything - that she was cheap. Gagging for it -"
   "Did he tell you who she was?" I interject, voice thick after that sharp stab of information.
    "No. But it doesn't matter - she was nobody. I don't care about her. All he wants is me."
     "So if you found out, you wouldn't care?"
Her face contorts, bemused. Her eyes adopt the look of a boasting child when recieved with the wrong reception from their audience. She utters an incoherent sound, a questioning expression on her face.
     "I know who she was," I state matter-of-factly.        

Tangle

She stands silently, looking down into her glass in an attempt to avoid eye contact with me. I lean against the kitchen counter on the opposite side of the clean white room. I haven't offered her anything to eat and don't intend to if she continues this chirade of naivety. I breathe in the morning air filtering through the window, only slightly ajar, and exhale deeply before pouring myself another drink. She has replaced hers on the countertop behind her and has retreated further into her own mind, gnawing silently at her thumbnail whilst her eyes glare, trance-like, into the clinical white floor tiles. The emptiness in the room doesn't register in my mind - my body pumps with alcohol infused blood, leaving my senses permanently numb.
     "How do you -"
     "I saw you both through the window."
     "I knew I shouldn't have let him come to mine," she mutters to herself.
I don't correct her with the fact that I saw them at his house; instead I stand receptively, and allow her to tangle herself in webs of guilt, as I remain the innocent party.   

Glug

Standing in the kitchen, the cold tiled floor cools my now warm body. Mother's glasses still sheilding my eyes, I look up at the smouldering sun and smile - a culmination of the knowledge that we're living in a decidedly determined heatwave; and the fulfilment that last night's antics evoked. I open the drinks cabinet for the umpteenth time this weekend, pull out a couple of bottles without acknowledging their contents, and mix them with a glug of coke. I pass her a glass, her thin fingers grip it tightly, she winces as the conconction trickles down her throat. Her beautiful dark eyes open, mouth stretches into a self-conscious smile as she notices my unashamed gaze.
    "God, you take your drinks strong," she states, rubbing her tired eyes, "have you been eating properly?"
    "Yeah," I mutter unconvincingly.
    "I'm worried about you, An..."
I shrug and take a large gulp of my drink, then turn my back to her in favour of the kitchen window. 
     "I mean, wouldn't you be worried if I was -"
     "Sleeping with Mark again?" I interrupt, my voice steady, measured so as to hide my jealousy.

Squeals

I wake up shivering, head aches as the harsh white sunlight penetrates my eyelids to make me suffer despite my squinting eyes. I reach over clumsily to find the daylight armour that is my Mother's designer glasses. The pounding now softening, I look over to her frail body; goose-pimpled arms beneath her head to act as a cushion, a pleasant expression lies gently on her face. I push my pale fingers beneath the glasses and rub sleep from my eyes. The conservatory door lies open, suggesting nobody came home last night. I lean over and breathe into her bejeweled ear, "wake up, toots," in a mock southern drawl. 
She giggles quietly, body convulses as it becomes conscious of the fact that we slept outside, unprotected from the chill that creeps in when the sun sets on a summer evening. Her nipples push through the light cotton material of her dress; "you're cold - let's go inside."
We stand up, leave everything outside - tartan blanket, my iPod, empty pitcher... My mind is hit by the memory of what we did with the several lonely-looking cubes of ice, her loud squeals penetrating the silent blanket that lay over our neighbours houses.     

Brushes

My eyes are shielded from the sun's harsh rays by my Mother's large sunglasses, usually employed to disguise dark circles after a particularly wild night with her younger lover. I have been laying in the same spot on a blanket in the middle of my garden for several hours, a pitcher of Jack Daniel's and a splash of coke by my side, the day growing ever hotter. I removed my t-shirt about an hour ago, skin far too clammy for clothes, and lay waiting for her in my bra and trusty denim shorts. She text me early this morning warning that she'd be round later. My heart begins to beat slightly faster at the thought of being confronted with her. I wonder if she'll mention him and decide she won't, whilst Paolo Nutini's lazy drawl caresses my ears through Dad's big headphones which I've yet to return to him. Not that he's noticed me using them - I've noticed of late how often my house is vacant of adults. Thoughts of my parents threaten to infiltrate my intentionally ignorant mind once more; I reach for the jug and pour myself another glass. My eyes stumble upon her bare feet in the doorway of the conservatory.
"Pour me one while you're at it," she instructs before padding over to my tartan island in the sea of lush green grass that is my back garden.
"I've missed you," she muses after a few silent moments, "I haven't heard from you in days. I know it sounds silly..."
"Thanks," I respond in a husky monotone, not removing my headphones.
My eyes remain shut, but I feel her body as she repositions herself to lay beside me. I feel her warm breath on my cheek; my own quickens as I turn to face her. I lift up my glasses to examine her figure more closely. Clad in a light cotton halter-neck dress, her perfectly formed breasts have formed a small cleavage as she remains on her side. Her tan legs glisten in the glow of the sunlight, hair falls over her shoulders, hand reaches over to my face. She pulls herself closer and brushes her soft lips against my own.
"You shouldn't be drinking this much whilst it's still so light out," she whispers.
"We shouldn't do a lot of things -"
"Yet we do them regardless - I know."
She hasn't moved back to her original space on the blanket; her face remains static, mere centimetres from mine. I lean into her, hesitantly, but she meets me half way. Her mouth opens and I follow her lead as the sun begins to set, the warm air takes on a slight chill, and we remain as we are and have always wanted to be.

Glittering

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the first vodka bottle bone dry; a half-empty bottle of more expensive vodka lies in my lap along with an empty can of beer and a brown-coloured miniature I found in the back of the alcohol cabinet. My eyes sting from earlier tears, yet, in my reflection look uncharacteristically steely and absent. I breathe in the cool air which whistles as it gushes through my window, and dances with the tobacco fumes of my usually crisp bed linen. My body has been on auto-pilot for several hours; mind bemused at my new behaviours but unwilling to amend them. I breathe in the heady smoke from another cigarette I stole from my mother's study when I was about twelve; and remember the awe in Isobel's face as I produced the untouched packet to her pre-pubescent self. 
     "That's so cool," she had said in delight, "you're my best friend."
A pang of remorse flicks at my puce heart, but is soon dispelled by my alcohol-induced nonchalance. I lay, unmoving for hours and watch the summer sky transform into an indigo coloured blanket laiden with glittering stars.  

Raw

Slowly, my breathing steadies itself, panicked heart rate decreases, and my mind becomes calm as I sit on the garden wall which barricades a properly preened front garden from the busy main road. Eyes have dried leaving grey streaks of diluted mascara on my cheeks, but my mouth is yet to moisten. I remember the small off-license situated beside the station and spill the coins from my purse into my hand... £5.69 - just enough to purchase a cheap bottle of vodka if I flutter my clumped eyelashes seductively enough. I'm aware of how far simple gestures can get me with young men from recent experience. I see his beautiful, embarassed face once more on that first day he really saw me, as he mopped up my drink with a handful of napkins, trying desperately to avoid eye-contact. The way his glistening blonde hair falls in his face, his large hands as they sweep it back, those eyes as they are revealed from the veil of blonde locks. I pass the man at the counter my collection of coppers and pound coins and walk out of the shop before he has the chance to count it. I unscrew the bottle and wince as the clear, scent-less liquid makes it's way down my raw, scratching throat. 

Enveloped

I swallow hard as my rasping breath pulls at my throat; I keep running. Every pore on my body exudes sweat in the humid, strangling air. A warm rain begins to fall and mixes with the salted water spilling from my eyes. I keep running. The startling sound of a car horn awakes me from my aimless trance, and my feet stop just short of its wing mirror. I close my eyes and feel incapable of keeping my body parallel; my head spins - a combination of shock and sudden adrenaline. My eyelids grow heavy, I burrow my fingers in my matted hair and tug at it whilst squinting in an attempt to steady myself. His hand on the lower-most part of her toned stomach is imprinted on my mind. Her closed eyes, head leaning against his chest, top teeth clamped to her lower lip. His hand moving toward her navy lace knickers. I turned away as the tips of his fingers were enveloped by lace and skin. My heart begins to pound more heavily, tears flow uncontrollably, mouth completely dry; I'm unable to breathe. My body is enveloped like his fingers, and is racked in its entirety by an inexplicable wave of panic.

Palacial

I step off the train several stops after I intended after pouring my heart out to the woman with the cashmere scarf which I used to blow my nose. Oh god, I'm a ridiculous person. I follow the crowd of other 'customers' blindly through the winding corridors of the station, and don't realise until I am beyond the barriers that I've arrived, by default, at his station. The street with its palacial houses sprawls out before my eyes, and I, unthinkingly begin to walk toward number 174. I don't look where I'm going. Instead I focus on the gold numbers which shine in the afternoon sun. 158...164...168...172...174. I stop outside the wooden gate, my mind buzzes with anticipation as I wonder what I should say to him. Do I want him again? Am I feeling angry or guilty or jealous that he hasn't text me since she found out? I begin to sweat, pupils dilate, pulse quickens as my fingers unlatch the gate. Then I look up to the grand house with it's large windows and I see them, bodies entwined and shirtless. Her face creases into a playful smile as he unfastens her navy lace bra. I turn away and run. 

Rising

Making my way down the elevator illuminated by strip-lighting, my heart pounds as though it is about to break out of its cage and fall clumsily onto the metal step on which I stand. I breathe slowly, trying to regain composure after my speedy walk from home to the main road. Screw it. I skip down the remainder of the escalator, practically sprint past the blonde busker swinging her hips and singing her lungs out. I make it to the platform after bumping into several other passengers and realise that my train is still four minutes away - I am no further ahead than the people I sped past self-importantly. The music which I had been walking rhythmically to has stopped playing, so I stand stationary, deflated at the edge of the platform. And without consent, my throat becomes dry, stomach feels as though it is rising through my torso to escape from my mouth, and knees feel too weak to carry my dumpy body. I can feel the heat rising in my face, and know that my nose and cheeks are turning an embarrassing shade of red; I pull the headphones down irritatedly, to rest on my neck. The hefty metal train sends a cooling breeze along the platform, but as I breathe in what I presume to be sweet, cold air, my taste buds are filled with mechanical smells and an unidentifiable combination of bodily odors. I cough and splutter as we all pile onto the train, to the disgust of my germ-wary passengers, one of whom immediately dives into her bag for her trusty hand sanitiser. My body feels strangely free within the confines of the silent carriage, muscles loosen and tears form in my eyes. The woman standing opposite catches my attention with a sympathetic smile, unconsciously prompting the immediate onslaught of tears which flow down my flushed cheeks.
"I slept with my best friend's boyfriend!" I announce to the carriage, before telling the poor woman my God-awful tale.

Sheepish

She decides to go home for the first time in a week, now more sure of herself - that she can be in a room by herself, that is. I see uncertainty in her eyes when she is telling me this, however, as though the demon, self-deprocating thoughts are already dancing behind those soulful brown irises. 
   "I'll be fine," she assures me between gnawing at her fingernails.
She shoots me a sheepish smile, picks up her handbag and walks out of the door, my size 14 jeans slipping down her thin hips with every step she takes. I decide to go for a walk. The four walls of my house have been slowly closing in on me since we arrived back from that fateful day at his house. My conflicting thoughts are amplified unbearably within the confines of my childhood home - a place that, ideally, should only be filled with playful, innocent memories. I grab my iPod and my Dad's unsightly headphones, so large they cover the entire surrounding area of either ear and flatten my hair; but so ear-splittingly loud that they may stand a chance of obliterating my resounding conscience. I leave the house and walk in time with the whiny tones of Caleb Followill. I reach the underground station on the main road and decide to catch a train somewhere. Anywhere.   

Blades

We lay in my back garden, slightly damp blades of green grass cooling our backs as the mid-July sun beats down on our stomachs. Ray Bans shielding our eyes to prevent crows feet, earphones in our ears connected to our iPods, large glasses of wine & lemonade at our sides, my summer feels as though it's going according to plan. I smile as my fingers twist blades of grass by my sides, pulling bunches out rhythmically yet out of time with the music resounding round my head at maximum volume. She hasn't cried for a few days and has been eating normally, yet I am aware that beneath her dark glasses lay empty eyes, bare of mascara and eyeliner and irritated from fierce rubbing every time tears threaten. She is quiet. Contented, I hope, but I doubt it. I wonder when the talkative, excitable Isobel will return but stop thinking before I, once again, feel guilty for my actions. I justify to myself once more whilst listening to the Kings Of Leon's 17, that if I hadn't taken such drastic measures, she'd be by his side this summer, not mine. And as I feel her smooth, clammy hand clasp mine and see her face stretch into a smile as I turn to her, I know that all of the pain and guilt have been worth it. 

Throws

"He keeps calling me," she reveals over breakfast - our second spent together this week. 
     "Have you been picking up?"
     "No, but he keeps sending me texts which of course I read, and I can't face Twitter - the last time I checked my account, he'd mentioned me in several posts..." her voice trails off as she bites into her toast; the corners of her mouth are glazed with strawberry jam.
I wipe them with the tips of my fingers and as the warmth of her breath escapes her mouth, imagine how the rest of her warm skin would feel beneath my milky fingertips.
She's still talking about him but I'm not even attempting to concentrate. I've heard his name a few times followed by the odd swear word. The thought of her body throws my mind back to that day at his. My heart beat quickens as images of him flash through my mind - his sculpted arms as they held his upper body over mine; the feel of his stomach hair as it brushed against my sticky skin; his closed eyes and warped facial expression in the final throws of our teenage lust. 
Her dainty fingers, with their gnawed nails where she'd bitten unthinkingly, hold a large mug of green tea. The steam rises from the depths of the cup, to her shiny skin. She's still speaking; I catch the last few words - "If I ever find out who she is, I'll kill her. And, as my friend, you will help."

Penetrating

Fierce sunlight pours through the window of my bedroom; my eyes open, the first thing they see are her dark curls. My arm wrapped around her waist, her body pressed to mine in the confines of my single bed, her mascara-stained face burrowed in her hands. I check the time on my phone: 13:04. I think of last night - we arrived at my house late evening, watched 'Glee', conscious that it had been too long since I last heard her sweet cackle of a laugh. Once that attempt failed miserably, I gave in to the inevitable, pushed The Notebook into the DVD player and sat beside her, tissues at the ready as we watched a love story unfold, both well aware that the scene in which James Garner breaks down, was just around the corner. I unfurl my left arm from underneath me and stroke her soft hair rhythmically yet softly enough not to wake her, before falling back to sleep beside her; my warm breath penetrating her bed-head barnet, strands flailing in the breeze. And we sleep the summer afternoon away, me dreaming of her, her of him.   

Penetrating

Fierce sunlight pours through the window of my bedroom; my eyes open, the first thing they see are her dark curls. My arm wrapped around her waist, her body pressed to mine in the confines of my single bed, her mascara-stained face burrowed in her hands. I check the time on my phone: 13:04. I think of last night - we arrived at my house late evening, watched 'Glee', conscious that it had been too long since I last heard her sweet cackle of a laugh. Once that attempt failed miserably, I gave in to the inevitable, pushed The Notebook into the DVD player and sat beside her, tissues at the ready as we watched a love story unfold, both well aware that the scene in which James Garner breaks down, was just around the corner. I unfurl my left arm from underneath me and stroke her soft hair rhythmically yet softly enough not to wake her, before falling back to sleep beside her; my warm breath penetrating her bed-head barnet, strands flailing in the breeze. And we sleep the summer afternoon away, me dreaming of her, her of him.   

Exertion

Her eyes maintain their focused intensity as we stand on the crowded platform, her back to me as she stares at the screen displaying train times: 'Morden 2mins' it reads. I wonder what she finds so fascinating. She is a woman posessed. She turns to me then, her bloodshot eyes puffy, cheeks flushed from a combination of emotional exertion and the heat emanating from the sweating passengers. 
     "How could he?" she asks rhetorically. 
I shrug my shoulders and cast my eyes downwards to stare at the grey floor. 
      "Why would he need to?" her voice trails off, "wasn't I enough?"
I examine her shiny, voluminous hair, full lips and pert breasts. Of course she was enough. "You're the best looking girl he'll ever have."
       "But who cares about looks..."
       "Okay, you're the best looking, kindest, most fun person he'll ever have." 
She processes this information for a moment before leaning over to me, flinging her thin arms around my neck, holding me in an embrace and whispering, "I sometimes wish you were a man."
Her body is racked with tears once more, and I hold her in my arms until three trains have gone past and her sobbing finally subsides.

Heave

I tap my oyster on the reader and walk through the grey barriers. My hands busy themselves, putting my oyster card in my bag and retrieving my iPod. Eyes look up briefly from the small LED  display to board the escalator and find her green dress-clad silhouette several steps ahead. Her head downcast and gently moving as her simultaneous deep inhalation and attempts to stop crying make her lungs heave and stutter. My own heart begins to beat at a faster pace, without a steady rhythm, as my mind slowly comprehends the consequence of my actions. I feel his strong hands once more, pulling my dress over my head, fingers fumbling with my knickers, the unexpected forceful nature of his actions... his caring eyes. The sound of her breathless sobbing. My throat feels as though it's swelling up as tears sting my eyes. I blink fiercely and breathe in the warm air of the underground. She steps off the escalator and I begin to walk down the few steps left before the bottom. I push past suit-clad commuters and relaxed tourists until I catch up to her and tap her on the shoulder; which is when I realise that her eyes aren't particularly sad - they are bright with fresh hatred and plans of revenge.         

Wait

I stand in silence, ear pressed to the door as their footsteps ascend the staircase. They speak inaudibly, she chuckles, his bedroom door slams. The rest of the house joins in my silence. I know I should leave while I have the chance; instead, I sit on the toilet seat and wait. She releases another child-like squeal as the sound of her feather-light body being thrown on his rumpled sheets reverberates through the floor. The thick walls mask the sound of their deep breaths, but my imagination still conjures the sounds and images in my mind. I twist both taps until the water splutters incontrollably from the faucets, smashing against the enamel sink and swirling down the plughole. I concentrate on the sound of running water to drown out all thoughts of them; of her perspiring skin in his hands, the hands that were, only twenty minutes ago, clutching at my hips. I begin to think of his touch once more, his eyes as they bore into mine. 
    "What the hell, Mark?! Whose are they?" her shouting penetrates my thoughts, voice cracks as she fails to stifle her tears.
I fight the urge to run into the room and embrace her until her sobbing subsides. Once again I wait. I wait until she throws on her clothes and flees the house, which, it turns out is not the best idea. He bangs on the bathroom door, shouting profanities, demanding a justification for me leaving my knickers for her to find. Unable to ignore the incessant pounding any longer, and estimating that Isobel would be well on her way by now, I brave his rage. Facing him, I contemplate being blunt, allowing him knowledge of my manipulative strategies. Instead I place my palm on his stubbly cheek and tell him, "I was in a rush, I didn't realise," before pressing my lips to his one last time and assuring him: "don't worry, she'll never find out that you slept with her best friend."  

Presses

We lay under the covers, his tan arms wrapped around my pale figure, mouths unmoving, minds seemingly at peace. My eyes wander around his bedroom, studying every crevice, as they hadn't the chance to see where anything but the bed was earlier. The floor is covered in empty CD cases, the discs themselves stand in a tall tower beside his iMac; notebooks are scattered around the room, some lay open, his scribbles on display appear to be a working progress. Our clothes are splayed across the wooden floor. My mouth creases into a smile as I recall how they all got there. His warm palm is stretched across the width of my torso; my minds eye returns to the morning I awoke in this same house to find his hand in the same position on her washboard stomach. I shake all thoughts of her from my mind until I hear an unfamiliar ring tone - his. He removes his hand from my skin, to search for the handset on the patch of floor beside the bed. 
    "Is?" he asks, bemused but gentle.
Throwing the phone back to the floor after a brief exchange, he places his soft lips on my ear, kisses the lobe and whispers, "Isobel's on her way," before practically leaping out of bed with me to get dressed for her. I follow his lead and am about to pull on my black silk knickers when my mind formulates a better idea. I pull my dress over my head, replace my converse on my feet and smooth my hair down with my palms. My foot touches the top step of the staircase, ready to descend, grab my bag and leave, when the door bell rings. 
   "Hide in the bathroom," he instructs before pulling me back into him and pressing his lips to mine.  

Understated

He opens the door to me with a wide, welcoming smile. Clad in a pair of loose stonewash levi's and a plain White t-shirt, his muscular arms are as naturally golden as his wavy hair. 
      "Come in," he beckons, reaching for my hand and pulling me gently into the hallway of this grand yet understated terraced house. 
Once inside, he takes my handbag and places it at the foot of the wooden stairase. He leads me through to the airy white kitchen, pours me a glass of coke to which I slyly add a slug of vodka in an attempt to give me that cool air of confidence that both he and Isobel exude effortlessly. Luckily he had already walked toward the French doors leading to the garden, so hadn't noticed my brazen hands stealing from his parents drinks cabinet. After replacing the bottle, I join him in what I discover to be a palacial garden if such a thing exists. He lounges across a large wicker sofa and gestures for me to join him. I smile and walk toward him, place my glass on the wooden coffee table, then perch on the edge of the wide seat; he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer but I'm knocked off balance and rather than just sitting closer to him as I assume was intended, my top half falls clumsily sideways and I land atop his muscular chest. He smiles, amused, and brushes a stray lock of hair from my face with the soft tip of his index finger. Our faces centimetres from one another, his sweet breath warms my face, yet he seems unphased by our sudden closeness. He stares deep into my eyes until I look away, exhale a relaxing breath and lay my head on his chest. Silently, he kisses the top of my head. A smile crosses my lips and we lay perfectly still in utter contentment until he suggests we go upstairs...

Sick

On the bus on the way to his house, I apply mascara with an unsteady hand. After several outfit changes, I settled on a floral dress paired with my battered grey converse. The pungent 'apricot' scent of fake tan wafts around the perspiring bus, but gives my usually pasty legs a glow and subtle shimmer, making them appear far less chunky than usual. Overall, I'm pleased with my appearance, not that it's myself i'm trying so desperately to impress. Eyelashes sufficiently lengthened, I stow my make up away in my bag and check my phone for messages. One from isobel, asking what I'm doing today. I managed to shrug off yesterday's question by telling her she must have left her phone unlocked and swore I knew nothing about the text. Today I tell her i'm visiting a sick relative. It seems to be becoming apparent that it's me that's sick.  

Lie

Dawn breaks at six AM through my curtain-less window. I rub the sleep from my eyes and immediately my mind jumps to him. We had been texting incessently since late morning yesterday and I couldn't recall saying goodnight - I must have fallen asleep mid-conversation. I immediately reach for my phone to find it, callously strewn in the middle of my bedroom floor. 'Two new messages', it reads. 
   "I'd like to do that with you, too" says the first; the second assumes correctly that I had fallen asleep and is ended with three kisses. 
I smile involuntarily and am about to send my apology when I note the time - 06:07 AM - so decide against it. Instead, I roll over so that I am lying facing the wall and scroll through the many messages exchanged between us yesterday. I stop for a moment to consider my feelings - I'm not supposed to like him, I remind myself. I'm doing this to get closer to her. Thinking of her once more, my head spins as I picture her golden skin, taut thighs and soft touch. I am reassured in the knowledge that the first phase of my plan has gone wihout a hitch. My phone vibrates in my hand; Isobel. 
   "Why did you text Mark's number to your phone?"
And I remember the night before last on the train. I meant to delete the message from her sentbox, but we were underground so the message was pending, and hadn't yet appeared in her sent items; then we were at our stop so I hadn't any time to think before waking her and getting off the train. Obstacle one in my plan. Solution - lie through my teeth, or phone to be more specific.     

Cost

Riding the bus home, my eyes wander through the city streets; the old buildings and sparkling department stores with their imaginative window displays. The bus slows and my eyes land on a man and woman walking within the crowds of tourists and redundant teenagers basking in the sunshine of this particularly bright Saturday morning. He stands a few inches taller than her, and her eyes look up at him adoringly, both of their faces crease into joyous grins as they laugh at something he said. My heart sinks as I realise that that is what I want - I want to feel the warmth of another person's skin on mine, for somebody to look at me longingly, to make me giggle the way Isobel does when he whispers in her ear. And I'll make sure I get it, at whatever cost. I feel a vibration against my lap, dig in my bag and find my phone. 'One new message'. Him.   

Shelter

Walking along the river on the South Bank alone, hair blowing in the wind, hand clutching my phone, my mind wanders around recent events. Inevitably, her face enters my mind once more; her sultry eyes; the carefree movement of her limbs as she walks, skips and dances; that smile and how it contorts her face to join in its brightness. He enters my mind - as beautiful as her, his strong jaw, uncertain smile and those soft brown eyes which could only rightfully belong to a poetic soul. My mind struggles with its conflict of interests: him and her. I open the message containing his phone number once more, eyes squint in the early-morning sun as it bounces off the steel-blue water, across the modern glass buildings of the South Bank. I shelter from it in the shade of Tower Bridge and peer at the intimidating eleven digits.
I copy them and begin a 'new message'; "Mark, it's Anna. How are you?"
A slow step, I know, but necessary, I conclude. Hopefully, he won't simply reply, "good. u?" He didn't seem the type to use phonetic spelling, but everybody has to have at least one flaw. I continue walking alongside the Thames and wait for his response.

Alight

My tired eyes gaze at our reflection in the window of the underground carriage as it glides through the darkened tunnels. She lays her head on my shoulder and I watch as her eyelids grow heavy and slowly close. Her light breathing becomes rhythmic as she drifts to sleep; my eyes are averted for a moment from our image in the rain-dappled window, to search the cavernous carriage of the last train. My attention is drawn to the only other passenger - a drunk, slumped over himself, simultaneously dribbling and muttering incoherently. Her phone lies -periously close to falling - in her limp hand. I reach over to it, knowing that this time she was in a far deeper sleep than she was during my last attempt. My fast fingers scour her contact list until they land upon his name; I text his number to my phone and swiftly replace the handset where I found it before nudging her awake to alight the train.

Pierce

Her usually-olive cheeks blush pink as he whispers indecipherable sweet nothings in her ear. Her smile is so genuine, so happy as he continues whispering, mouth buried in her wavy hair, his eyes look up and find me. I fight my natural reaction of avoiding eye contact out of self-consciousness, and embrace his glare. He doesn't look away, and a small smile tickles my lips, turning the corners of my mouth upwards, but I try to control it in an attempt to maintain my sultry-seductress vibe. She giggles then and looks up to find me staring.
"Stop perving, Jas - go and find your own boyfriend, 'cause you're not having mine!" she squeezes his hand tightly then, and they fall into an embrace.
I turn away, but am still able to hear them, the sound of their pouting lips meeting, his hushed tones and her besotted giggle once more. My eyes focus on my own feet, clad in my trademark 'lesbian boot' Doc Martins, scuffed morosely at the toe. Kissing sounds pierce my ears. My eyes squint harder as they study the grey paving stones beneath me. I lift my right foot with the intention to walk further down the street, away from their love-fest, until I hear his deadpan voice speak loudly enough for me to hear, "you should ask your friend to join us. She's pretty hot for a dyke."

Timid

I smile shyly at him across the counter of the cafe where he works. He greets me warmly, recognises me as "Isobel's friend" and takes my order quite nonchalantly. I stare at him longingly and smile over-enthusiastically, but he doesn't seem to notice, just smiles that dumb, good-looking-guy smile and walks away. Ironically, Isobel would know just what to do in this situation. I twirl my frizzy hair around my right index finger, and cringe as I spot myself in the mirror behind his head, from that distance he's unable to see my chipped purple nail varnish, but he'd be able to decipher my stupid-but-sultry expression a mile off. I stop with the twirling. He walks over to my table, glass of coke in hand. Last chance to be sexy... I lean over the table and squeeze my shoulders together in order to push my breasts inwards, creating an undeniably huge cleavage. His eyes are averted for a moment from the task at hand. Consequently, as he places the over-filled glass of coke on the table, his hand is surprisingly unstable; the three ice cubes bob atop the brown liquid, and half of the drink is spilled perilously close to my ivory chest. I smile reassuringly in response to his flushed cheeks as he wipes the coke from the table.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry..." he stumbles over his words, "I was a little distracted."
He shakes his head apologetically, as if trying to banish images of me from his timid mind. It worked.

Corpse

The sound of her laugh is excruciating. Her dark eyes gather beautiful lines on their outermost corners as her face creases with the force of her large smile. Sitting beside one another on her bed, watching an episode of Friends we must have seen respectively about forty times before; I smile, not at the show, but at her child-like amusement.
"Hold my feet?" she asks, "They're freezing!"
So I do, and we sit in comfortable silence, smiling intermittently at the television, until her eyelids grow heavy, and gently close; and I am left alone with Joey Tribbiani, her graceful corpse-like figure, and her mobile phone. I reach over carefully to lift it from her lap, and feel the warmth of her skin through the light cover. Her chest rises and falls rhythmically, silent breath filters out of her full lips, eyes remain closed. As I lift the handset with my right hand, my left rises to balance the phone, but as it does so, my fingernails graze the sole of her foot and her lips morph into a smile, those lines appear again at the corner of her eyes.
"Don't tickle me!" she kicks the uppermost part of my inner thigh, and is suddenly awake again.
She grabs her phone, and checks for messages. Plan B shall have to wait another day.

Morning

The hairs on my legs prick up as I stand at the bus stop, sheltering from the constant onslaught of icy rain. My throat scratches, eyes sting vengefully at having to be open so early in the morning. I had only managed to catch a few hours sleep, my mind over-active with ideas for sabotage. I must have fallen asleep mid-plan, as I awoke, face lying on my keyboard, his facebook page on the screen. An idea enters my mind then, on remembering his model good-looks and sheepish yet charming demeanour. If I were successful and she found out, she'd never speak to him again. A devilish smile crosses my lips, eyes brighten as my bus comes into view. Today looks promising.

Elation

Sitting in her living room, my eyes flutter thoughtlessly through the pages of one of the many glossy magazines dotted around the house. She paints her toe nails, brow furrowed in concentration ensuring each little piggy is as perfectly polished as the last. Without looking up, she muses, "he's been really off with me lately. I text him a couple times today with no response - he usually replies straight away..."
I look up briefly to check whether her eyes have risen from her perilous task, and lower mine once again when I realise they haven't. Of course it's my fault that he's been 'off' with her, but she can't be too bothered.
"I might try calling him later," her forehead creases into slight frustration as a spot of the red varnish lands on her toe rather than the nail.
"Don't do that!" She looks up now, bemused. I continue, "well, if he's playing hard-to-get, you don't want to be too easy."
"I suppose you're right," she agrees, screwing the top back onto the half-empty nail varnish bottle, "he'll need me before I need him."
"Exactly," I smile and nod my head slightly. If I could keep this up perhaps I'd never have to think of them together again.
Her phone flashes and this time she notices, picks it up and grins elatedly. Time for plan B - whatever that is.

Yes

My eyes glaze over as I stare blankly into the computer screen. I've been here for an hour now, the new word document I started this morning still only contains the vague title of the assigned essay. She sits beside me, biting her nails and swaying in her swivel chair. My eyes break away from the moniter for a brief moment to rest on her petite toes as they breathe freely in her new sandals. She doesn't notice her phone flashing, so I pick it up. One new message; him. I read the text, her eyes are still fixed on the ceiling, counting the multiple spot lights.
'I can still smell you on my sheets. Come round later?' reads the succint message.
My thumb dances around the keyboard as I deliberate showing her the message... It navigates the options menu until 'delete' is stumbled upon.
'Delete message?'
'Yes,' I nudge the handset across the table to her, she smiles ignorantly.

Touch

"He wrote a poem on my arm," she says, smiling, then stretches her inked arm to my face for me to inspect.
I squint, trying to decipher the smudged script, "was this before or after he raped you?"
"After, i think. And, he did not -"
"You were practically unconscious."
Sitting on the northern line on our way home with dark circles under our eyes and the thick stench of cigarette smoke embedded in our clothes, the early morning commuters would have looked upon us in distaste had their noses not been buried in free newspapers. She had neatened her eye make-up before we left his house, so although we'd only managed to snatch a few hours sleep, her eyes manage to shine in the harsh strip-lighting of the underground. Stale taste in my mouth, throat dry and eyelids heavy, I squeeze them shut and scratch my head, in a vain attempt to liven up before my Politics class. She grabs my hand as our carriage pulls into Angel station, and my mind imagines the pair of them in his dirty sheets. Perspiring skin, his lips on hers, her silk-smooth palms touching him. I release her palm from mine, imagining the feel of his skin in it rather than mine. Her dress blows up in the familiar yet unexpected gust of air from the opposite platform, she shrieks, face creases into that beautiful smile. And I laugh along, forgetting his possessive hands and masculine strength as we board the escalator together, her bright eyes studying me as intently as mine watch her.

Fatigue

Rubbing my eyes in fatigue at the hands of an alcohol-fueled all-nighter, my mind drifts back to her once more. She lays beside me now, on the cold wood floor of his house. Images of them dance around my mind. I shake them away to think of only her, her slender frame as she danced to her own rhythm, ignorant of the blaring music. The scent of her flowing hair as it became infused with the pungent smell of cannabis and tobacco. The matt-silk feel of it as I held it for her whilst she heaved into the toilet bowl. Eyes open slightly wider now, I admire her angelic complexion and panda eyes. I ignore his haughty, beautiful frame as he lays beside her, long arms entwined around her small waist, fingers resting on her toned torso where her dress has ridden up overnight. Nobody else has woken, so I ignore my dry throat and lay down again, as close to her face as I can be without waking her. I brush a lock of brunette hair from where it has fallen across her forehead, and breathe in the scent of her sweet skin, almost indistinguishable from the infusions of sweat, drugs and beer. And I wait for her to stir and find me here, waiting for her.

Want

Sitting in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, applying a coat of lipgloss, my eyes should, ideally, be focused on my own face. Instead, they follow her. She stands behind me, examining her five-foot-nine, perfect size ten figure clad in nonchalantly uncoordinated underwear. She spins on the balls of her feet, turning herself to reach the dress she spilled her glass of coke down earlier. Of course she knows I'm still looking when she replaces the floral tea dress with the brown stain on the chest, but she loves an audience - whoever it may comprise of. She leaves the buttons undone so that her small, pert breasts peek out from the thin layer of material. Smiling at me in the mirror, she bends down and states, "I need lipgloss," before pulling my face round to hers and brushing her pale pink mouth against mine.

"Now, stop staring at my tits and get ready - I wanna go out."

I stood up beside her then, ignoring the beginning of her sentence. At an average five-six, with my buxom chest and unruly maine of dirty-blonde hair, I pale in comparison to her. She always looks sexy. Effortlessly so - with her olive skin, dark hair, eyes darker still, she barely ever wore make-up yet maintained the title of 'best looking girl' wherever we went.

"C'mon then, slut," I smiled, grabbing her soft hand. God, I need a boyfriend.