The Many Faces of Sylvia Brown

February 21, 2009
Sylvia. She never gave him a chance to think about it. Her waist tapered smoothly into a full-chested torso, which curved delightedly into childishly delicate shoulders, a long slender neck, and a face to kill for. Her tan might have been fake, but he never asked. Why would he? She was so obsessed with everything about him, he didn't have time to look at her as more than a trophy. She called off work for him, missed school for him. Short-shorts and kickin' shoes - everything to make him feel like he had the catch of the day. With chestnut hair and ice-blue, silvery eyes, nothing could've stood in her way. No, he never had a chance to know her, inside. But her stunner shades and fat wallet kept him coming back for more, more. And she thought she had him. Silly girl. Maybe she did have him. Yeah, she had him.

Except for that one girl.

Sylvia. He had her. Everyone knows her, but no one does. She smirks when she strides past the couples in the hallway, macking on each other. Teasingly sliding hands down pants, lifting skirts as casually as anything. That girl that stops at her locker on her way to her car, grabbing a work uniform and pushing in text books gently. The one with the amazing body, hid under sweats and his old, ratty teeshirts. The one with the plain, sometimes frizzy brown hair and glasses, a smudged nose and chewed nails. She didn't give up anything for him. She didn't have him, but she wanted him.

Maybe two was enough for him, but she wasn't one to push his limits.

Sylvia. Flesh piercings and wicked tatoos wrapped around her body, cleverly disguised at times. Her tapered torso, wildly pumped up hair, flashing heels kept him on his toes. Amazingly unproductive when she made it to school or work. She could look like she was breaking a sweat, doing nothing, that Sylvia.

The minute he realized how many "who's" Sylvia was, he could've run. But he didn't.

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