I’m the girl who reads the last sentence first.
I’m the boy who reads from the middle of the book.
I’m the girl who eats watermelon at 2am on paper serviettes and leaves a poem under a Roman prosciutteria’s glass tabletop.
I’m the boy who stuffs poems under his pillow and eats chicken wings with chilli sauce just as morning light lathers the blinds.
I’m the girl who saves cherry pips to wish on and chicken wish bones to play jacks.
I’m the boy who saves champagne corks and wonders whether they’re phallic symbols.
I’m the girl who paints her toenails baby blue and bites her fingernails to the quick.
I’m the boy who smears lipstick and eyeliner to brighten up his mirror’s image.
I’m the girl who drinks champagne in the spa, listening to Taylor Swift.
I’m the boy who plays Don McLean’s ‘American Pie’ as if it’s an alternative anthem.
I’m the girl who fogs up your car windows and puts her bare feet on the dash.
I’m the boy who wipes his car windows every week until they shine like faux diamonds.
I’m the girl who loves sex on top, underneath and from behind.
I’m the boy who overthinks his relationships, morning, noon and night.
I’m the girl who loves sex from behind, underneath and on top.
I’m the boy who has neglected his lovers even while having sex.
I’m the girl who fogs up the dash and puts her bare feet on the car’s windows.
I’m the boy who scrubs the dash, wondering what that heart-shaped mark could be.
I’m the girl who listens to music in the spa, drinking champagne to Taylor Swift.
I’m the boy who listen to the spa’s running water while thinking of streams in the wilderness.
I’m the girl who bites her toenails quickly and paints her baby blue fingernails.
I’m the boy who hates the smell of nail polish but loves a fingernail’s sapphire-like glints.
I’m the girl who plays on cherry pips for jack and saves chicken bones to wish on.
I’m the boy who rolls die obsessively and never believes it when he throws a double six.
I’m the girl who eats poems in a Roman prosciutteria at 2am and leaves watermelon on a serviette.
I’m the boy who drinks Amarone at 2am, imagining dripping watermelon amid a Roman summer’s heat.
I’m the girl who reads the first sentence last.
I’m the boy who reads this sentence first.
Cassandra Atherton and Paul Hetherington
Picture: Rupert Loydell
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