The hum of the blow dryer. Dad’s fingers sifting through the damp strands of my hair. Tossed, ruffled, falling like sand.
The sun on my chest. Blistering heat. Sticky thighs. Summer.
Thailand. I’m dripping onto the tiles and Iggy Azalea is trying to rap. She’s the realest. The taste of sweet sprite and raspberry vodka. Chips floating in the pool.
Grey. The sound of a thunderstorm. Calming. Blankets and cold toes.
Warm. Body Shop strawberry bath bubbles smell like candy. Sister and I are tasked with separating the big bubbles from the small ones.


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