by Lem Parzyk

I loved her for her milk you could say, and I guess you could also say it expired, went sour, was from a lame cow perhaps but how do you say that without sounding like a ham?

But, oh my Lord, when I’d met her she was tall and she was charmingly gangly and the sun had licked her legs and arms all summer long and how I yearned to gaze upon the places the sun’s greedy tongue had forgotten since beyond the one-piece swimsuit was the shy and unseen underbelly and this, this I knew was the skin of pale birth.

The summer I encountered her she couldn’t hide the pink burn across the bridge of her nose, the one running onto her cheeks in a kind of constant blush, the one aloe vera couldn’t mask and she was indeed embarrassed by it, but I found it had an unending innocence about it, like the whiteness a drop of her panties would show me, but I suppose, I suppose that would defeat the purpose entirely.

She wanted a spray-tan, she’d mentioned to me one winter day, but of course I’d waved it off this turning orange business to rival the bioluminescent, milky emanation unseen skin could cast, revealing the lengthy bluish-greenish veins just below the surface running through the limbs, running to the incandescent chest, the heart of it all.

If I had my way I’d move her to Scotland, keeping her under a dark umbrella the rare days the sun sought the skin of the part in her hair, or of the lambent feet that socks had so well kept secret.

She came home one night, the tallest Oompa Loompa I’d ever seen. A cantaloupe-colored girl I couldn’t ever relearn to love.


Lem G. Parzyk is a thinly pseudonymed young miss who enjoys short to intermediate walks on the beach and non-alcoholic piña coladas. She has been published in the Prairie Light Review.
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