Sometimes, like today, I like to paint one hand of my nails, and then turn the light off and paint the other hand. Once they've dried, I turn the light back on and compare the two. How wrong the second hand seems! The precise, sharp lines on the left hand; the careless, slopped on mess to the right. My foolish senses beguiled by loss of sight into believing I was doing it right. I always reach for the remover and wipe away the mistakes.

Dark red lacquer staring up boldly from my fingernails. It looks so bright, so deep, like real blood painted onto my hands with the utmost precision. Francis likes the colour red; he says it brings to mind richness, royalty, regalia, respect. I say that's too many 'r's. Top coat, coat it on top, shiny shiny shiny. I look good. Red is a strong color. I'm strong.

I make a shark face in the mirror. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed. Claws bared too, and now I'm a tiger. Tiger shark? Winky face at myself, pout. Red lipstick, I look like a vampire. Pale skin, pale hair, blank canvas for bright red lips. But wait, my hair is too light, my eyes too blue. Too this, too that, bumpy skin, under-eye bags, dry lips. Everything you do dries out your lips. Everything.

"Francis, do I look like a vampire?" I turn and pout. He's scribbling at something.

"No, of course not, your ass looks great." He doesn't look up.

"What?" My ass..? Vampires have perfect, immortal asses. Mine needs a good 99 Workout.

"Oh. Um, sorry, I'm just tired. And yeah, yeah you look.. Dead. And stuff," Francis finally glances up for half a second, then the bastard just keeps drawing on his little scrap of graph paper. Well fuck you too.

I run upstairs, feet clunking heavily on the less-than-sturdy wood. I feel dirty, and I want a shower. I drop my clothes on the floor, feeling a little guilty about the mess, but whatever. I can clean it up when I'm done my shower.

Warm water is the most comfortable thing in the entire world. I could stand here forever. No, I couldn't. I need food, and alcohol, and Francis. I need Francis, all of Francis, sweet, sophisticated, soft, seductive, and shining like the sun. Even his kisses taste sweet, like cotton candy. We lay in bed late at night, and it's that perfect window of not-quite-sure-of-anything between when the moon sets and the sun rises. He looks so, so beautiful when the light hits him from the window. I smile a little. It sounds silly, but I get kind of a tweak in my chest when he looks up at me through his eyelashes. Sometimes, I get a feeling like he's the hot air balloon, and I only the plain brown wicker basket beneath. Francis is a dreamer, rising into the clouds with his free spirit and lovely smile. I am lucky to have been brought along, the privileged, pulling him down with me.

And then sometimes, like now, I realize that's fucking stupid; I'm fucking stupid. And I go back to washing my hair with body wash because I'm too cheap to buy real shampoo. It's not like Francis doesn't have any, he has like, fucking one billion expensive beauty products, but I never touch them. They're not mine to touch.

"I smell like an Irish Spring!" I announce, bouncing downstairs in just my briefs. The blond across the room finally notices me, and smiles, putting his things away. "Let's go upstairs."

He grabs my waist and kisses me gently on the mouth. I love this. He's the best of the best at loving me, and it gives me tingles when he slides his hand down my warm, bare back. Heavy palming, wet kisses, rough tongues, frenzied touch: these are the moments I live for.

His fingers playing with my hair. It's dawn, and I'm sweaty, and satiated. I lay underneath Francis, smiling at him. A moment later, he smiles vaguely back. I guess I really am that good, huh, if he can't even think straight. I stretch, arching my back, with my eyes closed. In my moment of distraction via spinal comfort, a tongue found it's way to my chest.

"Hey, Francis?"

"Ynes, dlarlinkt?"

"I-Just. Would you-just-will you stop that!" I push myself up, look him in the eye for once. "Stop distracting me, will you, I'm trying to say something."

He stares up at me, arms on either side of my too-pale body. Francis focuses on me, eyes narrow and mouth open just the slightest bit. I hate that head tilt- it always means something, no matter how much he insists it doesn't. I hate how he knows everything. I hate it, I hate how condescending he is. I hate hate hate how things always seem so muddled when I see them in his eyes even though they are the clearest blue in the entire world.

"What is it, mon cher? What did you want to say?" He stares right fucking through me.

"I-" I hate you. I get headaches from your cologne. I know screwed Hercules on New Year's Eve. I secretly feed the lunches you make me to the cat. I, I, I don't know you anymore. "I love you."

He smiles. So I smile. Somewhere in the apartment above, a girl is singing. If you're the bird, whenever we pretend it's summer, then I'm the worm.

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