One of the few good veins remaining.
“No!” she shouts, followed by an obscenity. “Nooooooo…”
She’s on the ground, cross-legged, roiling behind some shrubbery as if it’s a shield. But we see through it.
She appears frenzied, as if she could do something regrettable at any moment.
There’s nothing warm about this day. Nothing in her belly; nothing covering her hands.
A flash of flesh; her forearm blinds passersby, highlighting the besieged skin from prior pokes.
She just wants it in, but her veins warn against it. “Don’t use me for this. I don’t want that kiss.”
Yet she jabs and slaps and squeezes to make something happen, something that used to be magic.
It’s just that there’s no one remaining except a sad, swearing girl behind the curtain.