Donna drabble for bexatious
I invariably mess up Donna, but for my bexatious I had to try.
She’s always been proud of her skin. Even when she was younger, teeth wired in braces and hair grotesquely, yet fashionably, curled, she’d look in the mirror and watch in awe as her fingers drew patterns against her cheeks.
Soft.
‘Translucent’ is the word she likes, the word she doubts Bobby Nilsson even knew existed, let alone could say.
Now, though, her skin’s a traitor. At every look he gives her, every tone of voice, loud, teasing or - by far the worst - begging, she feels the rosy flush rising, spreading across her chest and neck. Her cheeks grow pink.
Oh, Josh.