The Record Skipped Where He Should’ve Loved Me

He tasted like cherry cola, like summer pretending not to end. I wore too much red lipstick, and it always smudged when I kissed him. He said I was too much: too loud, too soft, too in love with the idea of being loved. I laughed into my drink. Licked the red on the rim. I wanted to be his religion, his idol. But he only knelt when no one was looking. I should’ve left the night the record skipped. But I liked the static. Liked being the song he never learned all the words to. Liked the heartbreak. It felt expensive in the most tragic kind of way.