Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous: Felice (Episode III)

Felice walked into the bar looking like the kind of girl they wrote songs about, and I made it a point to not make that obvious.

“Haven’t I seen you wear that shirt before?”

“Where do you get it?” She asked. “This confidence you definitely don’t deserve.”

The air smelled like starched shirts, mistakes, and too much perfume. Sex. Such a sick validation of a grotesque existence. My heart strung on the soft tendons of her knuckles that left me wondering where the arches of her neck leads. A feminine physique, the scent of raspberries; wide hips narrowing to fine waist. They say a woman’s collar bones are the front lines of a mistake, and Felice was made of divine proportions.

“The smartest disease,” I said. “Is the kind that can disguise itself well enough to look like it’s a part of you. To fool the body into thinking it’s just another blood cell. That’s the way it is with people too. You gotta fake it til you take over their immune system.”

“You just compared yourself to cancer.” She said.

So young, beautiful, and cruel. She enriches me as a lover but ruins the writer, makes lighter all those tragedies I rattle with a beer can. Kissed by fire and freckled by 80’s rock ballads; she was terrible at the song of vice and liars. Honest to a fault with fireworks in her eyes- Felice. It means happy in Spanish and you had to smile to say her name. Hair halfway down her back and a dip between her shoulder blades. Thin fingernails and long, smooth knuckles that looked like almonds hiding under a bar of chocolate. Smokers lips and eyebrows that were either always sad or frowning.

“But I’m a Taurus.” I said. And she tried not to laugh, but failed.

We were coworkers at one point and I used to obsess over all her nuances. She was beautiful to me in fractions, not from the sum of all her parts. Each arch and nook of her frame and body seemed so unique, that I could tell the shape of her from anywhere. We remained light friends, occasional Facebook comment and el-oh-elling at a meme. An acquaintance that never quite made it as a friend, but if she ever cut ties and left, I would be a husk.

Because a cage without a bird is an empty thing.

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