She’s a hurricane, every season on the hour she comes and wrecks everything around you. Captivating and powerful, she skips around the place, wrecking lives and making history. This year her boyfriend kicked her out and six months ago she just remembered you and dropped by without calling. And when you see her in a sleeveless band shirt, short pants and boots, and this time her hair is purple, six months ago it was back to black. You won’t say no, there’s no way you do.
So you talk a little and fuck a whole lot. The moans she makes are electrifying, and when she tells you that you can fuck her like no one else you want to say, “You say that to all the guys,” but you just shut up and fuck her harder. It’s a Wednesday night and you’re both out, at some shitty place with a shitty band but hey she’s there and so are you. When she dances in the middle, writhing her body, tracing every nook and cranny with her hands, watching you in the eyes, making you jealous. You fuck in the dirty toilets, and drink until you can’t even talk. In the morning she’s gonna be there, and you rinse and repeat the previous night, every next day.
One day, maybe after a week or two you think to yourself this time, well maybe this time she stays, maybe she actually likes you now. Perhaps she’s here to last. The next morning she’ll be gone, without a note or a text. Just like any hurricane she comes by swiftly and leaves just as fast.
Nothing else to do but wait for the next time, next time she stumbles drunk and crying, next time she calls fucked up on something asking for a ride, next time she calls about her feelings and you can still hear the guy she fucked last night in the background. But you never move on out of her reach, you stay in hurricane territory, you stay and wait for the next time, and you say to yourself it will be different. It never is, only her hair changes, she never does.
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