When I was sixteen, I used to let my best friends hug me from behind and cup my breasts beneath my shirt — often while we sat drinking forties in an empty playground. Every once in a while, one would try to kiss me. Each time I refused. “Does this mean you like me?” No. “Does it mean you wanna touch me?” No. It means I like cold hands on my tits. Twenty years later I sit in an empty house at a kitchen table I made myself. I plop my breasts on the wood. I eat blueberry waffles. Let the syrup fall.
Valorie K. Ruiz is a queer Xicana writer fascinated by language and the magic it evokes. She currently lives in San Diego and is assistant flash fiction editor for Homology Lit. You can read more of her work on her website at www.valorieruiz.com or follow her on twitter @Valorie_Ruiz
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