Fingernails

Fingernails like mine remind her to feel sorry for me. The jagged edges cut into my skin as she drags them slowly down my back. I hiss into her ear. She shushes me.

            “But Cassandra –“

            “Cassandra will take care of herself,” she whispers. Her lips are on mine again.

            I pull back. “Wait.” I could taste her lip balm – strawberries and vanilla.

            She sits back on the bed. Outside, the bass pulses through the living room, thudding up against the closed door.

            “She doesn’t know anybody Sasha. And with the Frisbee boys here-“

            Sasha sighs dramatically, pushing herself off the bed. She stands, arms crossed over her chest with her hip cocked. I can’t help but notice how her cleavage peaks out from under her forearms, pressing up against the tight v-neck she wears. Her nails dig into her arms this time. Does that mean I should feel sorry for her?

            “If Cassandra was in trouble, she’d come and find us.”

            “But what if –“

            Sasha glowers and I slide to the foot of the bed, across from her.

            “If you were so worried about her, why did you come in here in the first place?”

            I glance at the jagged crescents tipping my fingers. Even in the dark bedroom they glimmer; just a little bit. “Your fingers.”

            She frowns. “What?”

            “Your nails.”

            Glancing between her hands and mine, her face scrunches. The door closes quietly on her words as she walks out: “I feel sorry for you.”