Nymph

She exists in moments.

She could have stepped out of a renaissance painting. Rossetti told her one too many times to pout and she walked straight off the canvas in a cloud of red hair.

“She’s straight. Definitely 100% completely straight.”

There’s a freckle on her lip. It pulls me in. I want to brush my thumb across it, draw her mouth to mine. I’m staring. She is watching me staring.

“She’ll soak up as much attention as you give her though.”

The day is clear and bright as only sunlight in the mountains can be. Her nakedness is surreal, glorious. There is a weight to her movement. The folding of her limbs is the shifting of continents. It makes me quake.

She slides into the water next to me with a sigh. Her fingers graze my thigh more than once. Not an accident, her goblin grin tells me that.

I am thinking about marking every last one of her freckles with my teeth.

She must have thousands.

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