Macaron

When Margaux bent forward, nude, her thighs together, a split peach appeared between her legs, or so I said to Rose, who sat next to me.

Margaux laughed when I told her this and corrected me.

“No, no, it is my little macaron,” she said with her somewhat vague British accent, looking back at us over her shoulder, still in the position, arching her back to give us a better view.

Rose was charmed by this. She threw back her head and laughed, then she grabbed me by my hair.

“Oh, you were just telling me that is your favorite dessert,” she said with that edge her voice got when she was feeling mean.

Then we were all on the couch, a mess of limbs and giggles and caught breath. Rose pressing Margaux against me like a bratty little girl mashing her Barbies’ mouths together in forced faux kisses.

It was rare that I got to feel like one of her dolls, so I savored the moment-and the first taste, that exquisite first taste.

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