All that I remember about Dean Cola.
The white sheet was soaked with blood.
I was embarrassed, horrified; I hadn’t been expecting it until next week. I tried to cover it with the blanket.
‘I don’t mind,’ you said, warm breeze ruffling your hair. ‘And it means you can’t get pregnant, right?’
I nodded against your chest; you had hair there. Above the rusty smell, I caught the scent of your skin: citrusy, fizzy — like Fruit Tingle lollies. Had you not been covered in my menstrual blood, I would have liked to have licked you all over to see if you tasted as good as you smelled. I was OK with human contact back then, and I slithered up your slippery body and made do with your mouth: milk, but not really — something lighter, sweeter.
Words from a childhood story fluttered to mind: sweet, fresh butterfly milk. You were Fruit Tingles and butterfly milk…
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