sixteen — micro fiction

I stood on the corner of the street, fishnet stockings pulled up and a newspaper under my arm. The burgeoning warmth of strobe lights came from the casino. I was sixteen years old, and every man loved me, but every woman hated me. London had always been unique to a girl like me, a loveable rogue who couldn’t help but find men falling at her feet as thrilling as almost dying. I always got the same rush as when I stood in front of that double-decker bus that one bonfire night. Luckily for me, and I say luckily with jest, you pulled me away and threw me on the ground. I never forgave you for that. You’re married now with two kids in tow, but I always taste that strawberry milk you used to buy from the Asian market. My date rounded the corner in his Saville Row suit, Louis Vuitton shoes, and his solid gold cufflinks. 

“Darling, are you sure you’re eighteen?” 

I shoved my hand down the front of his pants. 

“It’s not very nice to assume a stranger is lying to you,” I replied. 

We spent that evening making love, drinking wine, and talking about the world. He snuck out the following morning, never to be seen again. I sobbed for a few days, but I was soon back on that street corner with my sunburnt skin, waiting for my date to arrive.