“I taste like cigarettes and cheap wine,” she told him. Like maybe, if she wanted him violently enough, he would appear. Pulled. She’s coy and flirtatious (he’s already hers). She says the things she meant to say in person.
But between the hours of three and four in the morning, she cries for herself. Secret self-pity. She doesn’t mean to. She hates herself for it. She hates, too, when people says she’s confident.
They don’t know that they’re lying to her.