Was it a dream?

Dirty Hippy's hand finds mine the moment my parents' car pulls out of sight and we join the kinds we pretend not to know outside the food court, lighting up Turkish Golds and cigarillos, popping tiny yellow pills into our mouths and waiting for the caffeine to kick in. 

We enter the mall and her hand leaves mine, instead sliding around my back and resting at my waist where she digs her nails in until the tiny indentations they leave turn spotty and red with blood. She tugs me into Hot Topic and puts me in pleather pants that make my ass disappear; she calls me her dyke and hits me with a poorly-made imitation bullwhip while we wait in line for me to purchase the pants. 

At home that night her hands tug my shirt over my head, leaving me in my bra and the pants she picked out for me as she tugs me onto my waterbed. I bury my face in the place where her neck and shoulder meet and am overwhelmed by Red Jean No. 5 and the faint remaining scent of nicotine and pot from our earlier excursion to the mall. 

My room is insanely hot and I don't know if it's us or the ineffective space heater on my bedroom floor. My hand traces the barely-there muscles of her stomach and as I try to kiss her, she turns away from me, telling me she can't do that because she's not gay. 

I can still taste the margarita on her lips from last weekend as I fall asleep staring at her shoulders.