“Look,” she mused in my direction, “you’re cute and all, but you’re just too nice.”
Melina smoothed her raven locks out of her face as her emerald eyes narrowed and judged me. She tapped me patronizingly on the shoulder, and turned back to the bar, wrapping her fingers around a cup and downing her Jack. Her button nose scrunched up, but my eyes quickly hungered for her lips; ruby red, wet with lip gloss and whiskey.
It was an age old thing between Mel and I. I was her shoulder to cry on, her confidante, and she was occasionally my wingman, my therapist, and a great source of advice. We weren’t really relationship-compatible, but she would occasionally go on drunk tirades of wanting to be choked and roughed up…but for all she knew, I was a one and done, missionary guy. It wasn’t for my lack of trying, she just really never let me get a word in edgewise about my own sexual interests, or if I was able to, she evidently didn’t remember it.