By Maria Edible
He bought me after a week.
Seven days of gliding past my window, his inquisitive gaze somehow more engaging than the others. His spinning kaleidoscope eyes settled on mine for long brackets of time. I didn’t stare back, afraid I’d scare him off. I wished desperately someone would replace my aquamarine tulle dress, passé and redundant. On Thursday, the new clerk, a young boy with black, heavily gelled hair, came to change me. He lifted my glossy, blond hair and held it in his fist while his other hand casually unzipped the back. The boy pulled my dress down in one swift movement, the last rays of sunlight dancing along my smooth chest. I felt his hot breath on my shoulders as his fingers slid around my plastic body, pressing, grasping.
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