I’ve written just a tiny bit about Anya. We met. Once. We kissed. Once.
And then, she vanished into a haze of approach/recede ambivalence. She wanted me, she didn’t want me. For a while, she was in a relationship, then not.
All along, my Snapchat would buzz every few weeks with a few smoking hot pictures of her nubile body. Her skin is dark. She’s slim, lithe, taut. Insanely sexy. But, as with many women, and in particular, younger women, her photos emphasize the reveal, rather than the obscure. There’s a drivenness, a compulsivity to the pictures she sends. She needs to send them, more than she needs me to receive them.
The pictures – and the words that sometimes, but sometimes not – accompany them are almost always sent when she’s had too much to drink. She leads a partying life, and her inebriation isn’t all that uncommon. I have no way to know what proportion of her drunken episodes include “drunk sexts” to me. But I like getting them.
Of course, I’d rather get her. But she doesn’t seem ready for that.
Life is, we hope, long.