He rode up on his bike to where I was sitting and asked me in an accent different than mine why my glasses were shaped funny. I pushed my lips against each other and glared at him from behind the thick glass. He squinted as the sun hit his dark face and blinked at me. 

"I like them like this," I answered, setting my book next to me. 

He shrugged and rode away while the lion tattoo on his back bared its white teeth at me. That was the first time we spoke. With my legs turning freckly in the May sun, there was no way I could've know that in two short weeks I'd be kissing his bare skin and digging my nails into his skin in the hushed silence of his basement where he had invited me to casually watch his favorite documentary with him. And if I didn't know that, I most certainly didn't know that that second when I was engrossed in the book my older sister had given to me as a birthday present before being interrupted by a boy with a gap between his front teeth, that second would be last happy moment in my life. 

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Sometimes I write and sometimes it's not very good but sometimes I end up posting it.