He slept next to her plump of a flesh body. Covers pulled down to the foot of the bed exposed her imperfect figure. The neck was too thick and round, her skin was too loose around the lower neck. He laid his head down on the pillow behind her to see her hair sprawling and matted. The curves down her sides flowed well and streamlined until her waist, where they abruptly stopped and dismounted, paying respects to the fattened love handles that presided in the area. Further past the fattened waste, the ass wasn’t smooth at all. But rather, full of black hair and red bumps from dryness or chafing in the cold.
The boy thought his own body imperfect as well, but somehow it was justified. Somehow he could strut down the beach with chubby love handles but she could not. Next to her in the bed he blamed society, the perfect scapegoat he thought. But even with that scapegoat he still didn’t have the ego, the flair, the confidence to stand next to her holding hands in park or grocery store, for she and her imperfect body fell short of all expectations, of all requirements bestowed upon him. On the floor, her black bra laid in the center of the rug, matted, thrown, unwanted until the morning. He thought of excuses to feed her before breakfast. Relatives due in the afternoon, work perhaps, anything to get her up and out before any false promises were made. Morning brought daylight, and daylight would further expose her body, so fleshy and pale, an imperfect luster would shine to it.
He grabbed the sheets at the foot of the bed and laid them over her figure. He hugged close to her, he could feel her warm flesh as he pressed closer. In the morning he would call her a cab. His eyes closed and he dreamed next to her, wrapping his arms around her arms, she mumbled with a smile at this.
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