The Preacher’s Daughter

We drink too much pineapple rum, straight from the bottle, bitch about the red-haired girl, the fetish model, a preacher’s daughter with a thing for unreasonable shoes. From her faded patchwork quilt, bleeding hearts, we watched her mutate into a PVC Alice Liddell. How did she manage in seven-inch patent heels? She was tall as wheat — or the ceiling was low. Cradling a mewing ginger-ball, she kissed the mirror where their confederate-blue eyes matched. Three scars began to scab on her arm, deep big-cat scrawls she told us she cut herself because it’s art and her clients like her that way. We followed her clip-clop down the rabbit hole; me, to hear tales of her running track in those shoes; you, to see her white skin even paler under lights. Back in your dorm room, I am static. You pay to watch her pixelated Snow White online; complain her constant chatter ruined it, or her, for you.