Hollywood's Full of Girls Like You

You remember her when you least expect it.

She’s a flash of pure white in your mind, like the scarf she wore around her waist, and the scent of the mangoes she was oh-so fond of. You remember how they tasted on her breath when she’d shoved you into the hard brick wall in the alley, her lips a fraction of a breath away from yours, but her eyes holding you fast. Her hands had gripped your wrists so hard that there were marks later from where her perfectly-manicured fingernails had pressed into your skin.

“Hollywood’s full of girls like you,” she’d spat, quoting the lyrics of a song you only vaguely recognized from her stereo.

But then she’d pressed her lips fiercely against yours, removing any response from your tongue. Your eyes had closed, letting yourself drink her in before she disappeared. When you’d opened your eyes, she’d already been gone.

You see her now, and you think it’s just the memory chasing you again, but she turns to you with recognition in her eyes and you know it’s her—it’s really her.

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