prospect heights.

It was a paternal kiss, rather than anything else.
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I don’t like it when you kiss me in public.
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It wasn’t even a kiss proper. My lips barely touched your forehead.
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We got shouted at anyway.
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Little shit punk. We must ignore them.
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You think we got shouted at because we’re both pretty back-row choir boys, or because you’re a black stallion and I’ve got piggy pink skin, or because you’re lean and muscular and I’ve got at least fifty pounds to lose?
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Little shit punk. I don’t know. C’mon, less go. Sign says ‘walk.’