Flower Girl

Small Hands sits alone, staring at the wall. The room’s quiet, but his head is loud with her. He pictures Vina Sky on her knees in front of him—small, tight, all that dark hair framing her face. The image sharpens: her lips stretched around him, taking him deep, sucking hard like she needs it more than air. He feels every wet pull, hears the soft sounds she makes. The door opens. She’s there, real and sudden. Same eyes, same mouth. She doesn’t speak, just drops and crawls forward until she has him in her hand, then in her mouth again, working him with the same hunger he imagined. He watches her bob, cheeks hollow, spit shining on her chin. He stands, spins her, bends her over the edge of the bed. He drives into her from behind, hips slapping skin, her body jolting with each thrust. She pushes back, taking him deeper, breath ragged. He pulls out at the last second and paints her face—thick streaks across her lips and cheek—her tongue catching what it can. Then the door creaks again. Or maybe it never shut. The room looks untouched, sheets smooth, the air empty. He’s left staring at nothing, wondering if the taste on his tongue is real or just the ghost of a thought that got too strong.