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“would you let me braid your rattail sometime?”
vodka didn't tie her rattail back after her bath, so it's hanging loose behind her. and i can't help but let my eyes wander from where it is pressed between her shoulders and the wall up the slope of her neck to the sharp curve of her jaw—
“sure. why not right now?”
it takes me a second to process what she said; i must be looking at her like she spoke some alien language. “wait, really? i totally thought you'd say it'd be too girly.”
“nah, a bunch of my dad's friends have had braids in their hair, so i know they can be tough and cool — but you better make it a tight braid, not one of those floofy lookin’ things you do with your hair sometimes.”
“vodka. you wouldn't even have enough hair for that, as funny as it would be to see.”
“see? i knew you were thinking about it!”
“not until you mentioned it, you dummy! now come over here,” i order, patting the floor in front of me.
she shuffles over with a faux-petulant, “yes ma'am,” and sits. crosslegged, back bent forward enough that i can see the bumps of her spine under her green tank top — little stones covered in moss. they lead to the base of her tail, thankfully pulled around to her side instead of swishing about in my lap.
my right hand’s started twitching, index finger rubbing against the pad of my thumb. i exhale to make it stop... and try not to think about how she can probably feel my breath against the back of her neck.
“okay. i'm starting.”
i gather up her loose hair, nails grazing along the tense muscles of her shoulders. she straightens; shoulders back, ears on end and flicking backwards. should i apologize? no, that would be weird. i’m braiding her hair, obviously i'm going to touch her. i know that. she knows that. so it's fine!
her hair's surprisingly silky. guess i expected it to be coarser — more like her tail hair — but my fingers glide through it as i check for tangles. feels nice against the buds of callus that dot my hands. building some callus is inevitable when you train as hard as we do, no matter how hard i tried to prevent it.
now: separate into three sections; bring one from the outside to the middle, then to the other side as another takes its place. don't let it slip! i've done these motions countless times, yet my fingers are clumsy like it's my first time at dance practice. fuck. it's already crooked.
“shit. one sec.”
vodka just chuckles. why isn't she making fun of me?
whatever. i can do this. just need to loosen up my hands. so: inhale, picture the air flowing down to my fingertips, and then out as i exhale. start over.
this time, i don't mess up. muscle memory takes over, fold and pull, over and under. i'm not thinking about how i keep accidentally tapping her with my nails. nor about the jolt of nervous pleasure that surges through me every time it happens. i try to let my focus shift to the room, the sounds around us, but, as in all things, it just comes right back to vodka.
she hasn't relaxed her posture; still sitting like this is some formal occasion. except she's flicking the back of her thumb along the inside of her fingers — first all four, then the top two. an uneven washboard rhythm to accompany the whispering of hair through fingers as i weave.
the braid turns variegated as her hair starts to change colour; streaks of light appearing in the night sky. and then it's all white — i've reached the end. all that's left is to...
“hey, do you have a hair tie?”
“o-oh, uh,” her voice cracks, just a little, “yeah, got one right here.”
vodka reaches into her pocket. the motion makes the muscles around her shoulder blade contract, pulling it towards her spine. i've watched (gawked at, leered at) her back as she does similar movements in the gym countless times. but now i'm so close. i can see so much more. like the way her skin wrinkles around the tensed muscles. or how it makes her tank top loosen, forming little folds in the fabric. it only lasts for a second, and yet a fire's been lit in my gut. smoldering lust fed by syrupy shame.
i take hair elastic she holds out to me , being careful not to touch her fingers as i do, and secure the end of her braid.
“there! all done.” finally.
it looks good — really good. hangs heavier against her back, and since it's shorter, draws more attention to her strong shoulders. what would it feel like to grab it by the base and yank her head back, giving me leverage to kiss her as deeply as i can, her mouth parting for my... yeah right. maybe in my dreams.
while i'm busy being a total creep, vodka shakes her head vigorously, almost whipping me in the face her braid.
“hey! watch it!”
“hah. sorry, sorry. got a little antsy sittin’ still for so long,” vodka says as she jumps to her feet.
she pulls out her phone, turning her head one way and then the other, swinging the braid over her shoulder to get a better look — all the while making goofy faces into the camera. it's impressive how quickly she can jump right back into being childish; meanwhile, i'm still sitting here, a pit of longing. can't even put myself together enough to make fun of her.
“fuck yeah! i look awesome! thanks, scarlet! it's cool right?” she grins and winks at me.
i giggle, more girlishly than i intended. ugh.
“very.”