You think this one's name is Jenna, something like that, something all short and weird, nothing you could wrap your mouth around and draw out in long groans against perfect smooth skin while dark curls tumbled out of a ponytail and across your cheek and lips.
No, this rally girl, the new girl, is a little blonde, and her skin is freckled and her eyes are light. She's not that perfect height; you have to bend a little to kiss her.
Her legs wrap around your waist snugly, the social studies essay in her hand drifting to the floor when you press her up against her locker. It's fast and easy and you kind of sleepwalk through it; it should feel better than it does, that soft heat around you, but she keeps trying to tilt your head back to hers, trying to get you to kiss her again, even while you're bringing her off with your fingers. And normally, you'd have no problem with that, but tonight, something feels different.
Maybe because you've finally figured out that there's nothing that'll change between then and now, between now and whatever shit comes next. That dark-haired girl is always gonna be out of your reach, all lit up and in love, and all you're ever gonna be able to do is watch as your best friend says she's his with an arm across her shoulders and a kiss on the bright number six painted on her cheek.
You kiss the girl clinging to you. You might as well take what you can get.
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.