A goddess sitting at a bus stop, soaking wet in shorts and a crop top, even though it’s November and pissing down rain.

Hot. But also lame

 — I actually felt sorry for her.

First mistake.

When I asked if she had anywhere to go, she’d swayed on the bird-shitty plastic bench before turning her head,

just a little, to face me:

“You’ve got white gunk on your coat,” she’d said.

(I didn’t. She’s also a liar.)

At the allotments, leaning against a damp shed, heads tilted to one side, close enough I could smell the wine on her breath,

we kissed.

Right before we did, she’d purred,

 “I command you…” and the sound of her lips drawing back over her gums made my heart skitter.

Her mouth was dry as fuck, and she kissed rough as a cat.

Once Hathor hooked her keratin tongue over yours, like a python, you were done for, I realised, too late.

Too late. Now I hate her so much I could die.

Now I hang around bus stops rainy nights, thinking about how she tastes

the way you imagine the inside of a pyramid might taste.