This is the story I didn’t write.
About a girl I barely knew.
I wouldn’t call her timid or skittish,
(I’m not that cruel)
or ephemeral
(I’m not that kind).
But I would call her interesting.
I would even call her beautiful.
If I were writing a story, I’d tell you that she didn’t like to kiss men with beards.
(but she kissed me)
I’d tell you she didn’t believe most men knew how to please a woman.
(but she was pleased)
This isn’t a story, so it doesn’t have an ending.
(but this is the end)
(or the start, I’m not sure)