Her picture does not lie. She looks in person just as she does in it: flawless caramel skin, a warm smile playing on her lips, bright eyes. No filter, no edits. Just her. Surprisingly, I could not stare at her. Her gaze held mine without flinching. That was refreshing. Most people look away stiffly. I am not intimidating. I do not know where else I would look when talking with someone. Her laughter is easy and comforting, not a guffaw. Subdued and welcoming. You are a silly boy and I like your silliness kind of laughter. She was voluble. Her life is interesting. Men itch for her and she glows in the attention. She does not admit this. She speaks affectionately, even somewhat so of the one who had forced himself onto her (this did not go too far, thankfully). There was no bitterness in her voice, although she quickly moved away from that topic, with a smile and a wave of her delicate hand. She filled up the silences effortlessly. I would not have to come too much out of myself with her. I stew in the idea of seeing her again. It seeps into me, coating me like dust on oily skin on a windy day, and I am reluctant to wash it off. Four years later and she still lives up to my dreams. Her picture does not lie.


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