Getting Older Every Day
She frowned into the mirror. Hands pinched and prodded at the small of her eyes, the corners of her mouth, the slight budding swells that would one day be breasts, the tuft of fine, pale down above her slit.
At first she thought it was her, something she’d done. He hadn’t been the same in bed, wasn’t as ready when he came home, hard like he used to be. She’d tried things to get his interest—her mother’s lipstick, a spot of blush. The pigtails, the baby talk, that had got him going again, it had been good that night.
Until she saw him eyeing the girl across the street. Ten years old if a day, chubby with baby fat in places, in her little dress. He had been staring out the window, caught up in it as she bent over, thoughtlessly flashing her little ass to the world.
She didn’t know how these things worked, no one told her, but he had shown her some things, and she’d figured a few others out on her own. He had tried to hide it, but she knew it was something about her age that excited him, made the breath catch and the cheeks flush as he stared down at her. It hurt, sometimes, but it was good. She liked to remember the good times. How he treated her after. Dinner out, little prizes, the way he did things for her, the smile on his face and in his voice. She didn’t want to lose all that, not to the little fat thing across the street.
The closet had old clothes, too small for her. Little girls clothes, only a few months or years old. Perfect. She struggled into them, tight on her body, pressing down where her breasts were coming out, covering up the ugly hairs. Maybe she should take his razor, and shave down there.
She was waiting for him when he came home, in the clothes of a younger girl, eyes painted like a whore. Her voice was high-pitched, sweet, young as she could make it.