“I wanted to rip his mouth off,” He says, bending to
whisper in Cynthia’s ear. She turns to him, not question on her face.
“Didn’t you? When he kissed your hand? It was creepy.”
Cynthia copies one of his favourite movements and shrugs.
He turns to her. “Is it always like that? They just
touch you? Wherever they want?”
“Yes.” When he pulls back she continues. “Should they not? I
don’t know what they want so they do it themselves.”
He turns away. “It’s disgusting. I can’t believe you
just let that happen.” Cynthia can hear the anger in his voice but before she
recognizes it he is gone, through the double doors, away from the smell of
powder and alcohol wipes. He takes the smell of gasoline and grass with him.
Art from MirrorMask
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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