Borriguero

I walked to the bar with Ricura, her ringlets bouncing in the humid evening, our thoughts ready for partying, slightly dazed from the joint we had smoked in our dorm earlier that afternoon (giggling on my bed, the harsh smoke getting caught in our throats, exhaled through slippery lip glossed lips). Flirty, tropical straight out of the lambada video style clothing. My makeup was already running, I could feel the rivulets of sweat swimming down my back, gathering at the base of my back and in my well, crack. We passed a cafe and received catcalls and propositions from the varied men lingering in the doorways and outside tables. I sass them right back because I'm afraid of no one, though I am always at some degree, wary and scared of everyone and everything. I flip my hair, touch it nervously. I don't feel at ease with what I did with it (which is basically, absolutely nothing). I wanted to braid it but then Ricura took that idea and made it ten times cooler and actually did it. I ended up with zilch; messy lady hair, a little ill at ease, slightly jealous. Petty jealousy, how I fight it. I envy her skin, a lovely burnished cocoa, I envy her way with men, and her attitude of hard bitch when she has to be. Tough as nails, tough as a borriguero.