Want
Sitting in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, applying a coat of lipgloss, my eyes should, ideally, be focused on my own face. Instead, they follow her. She stands behind me, examining her five-foot-nine, perfect size ten figure clad in nonchalantly uncoordinated underwear. She spins on the balls of her feet, turning herself to reach the dress she spilled her glass of coke down earlier. Of course she knows I'm still looking when she replaces the floral tea dress with the brown stain on the chest, but she loves an audience - whoever it may comprise of. She leaves the buttons undone so that her small, pert breasts peek out from the thin layer of material. Smiling at me in the mirror, she bends down and states, "I need lipgloss," before pulling my face round to hers and brushing her pale pink mouth against mine.
"Now, stop staring at my t**s and get ready - I wanna go out."
I stood up beside her then, ignoring the beginning of her sentence. At an average five-six, with my buxom chest and unruly maine of dirty-blonde hair, I pale in comparison to her. She always looks sexy. Effortlessly so - with her olive skin, dark hair, eyes darker still, she barely ever wore make-up yet maintained the title of 'best looking girl' wherever we went.
"C'mon then, sl**," I smiled, grabbing her soft hand. God, I need a boyfriend.

Fatigue
Rubbing my eyes in fatigue at the hands of an alcohol-fueled all-nighter, my mind drifts back to her once more. She lays beside me now, on the cold wood floor of his house. Images of them dance around my mind. I shake them away to think of only her, her slender frame as she danced to her own rhythm, ignorant of the blaring music. The scent of her flowing hair as it became infused with the pungent smell of cannabis and tobacco. The matt-silk feel of it as I held it for her whilst she heaved into the toilet bowl. Eyes open slightly wider now, I admire her angelic complexion and panda eyes. I ignore his haughty, beautiful frame as he lays beside her, long arms entwined around her small waist, fingers resting on her toned torso where her dress has ridden up overnight. Nobody else has woken, so I ignore my dry throat and lay down again, as close to her face as I can be without waking her. I brush a lock of brunette hair from where it has fallen across her forehead, and breathe in the scent of her sweet skin, almost indistinguishable from the infusions of sweat, drugs and beer. And I wait for her to stir and find me here, waiting for her.

Touch
"He wrote a poem on my arm," she says, smiling, then stretches her inked arm to my face for me to inspect.
I squint, trying to decipher the smudged script, "was this before or after he raped you?"
"After, i think. And, he did not -"
"You were practically unconscious."
Sitting on the northern line on our way home with dark circles under our eyes and the thick stench of cigarette smoke embedded in our clothes, the early morning commuters would have looked upon us in distaste had their noses not been buried in free newspapers. She had neatened her eye make-up before we left his house, so although we'd only managed to snatch a few hours sleep, her eyes manage to shine in the harsh strip-lighting of the underground. Stale taste in my mouth, throat dry and eyelids heavy, I squeeze them shut and scratch my head, in a vain attempt to liven up before my Politics class. She grabs my hand as our carriage pulls into Angel station, and my mind imagines the pair of them in his dirty sheets. Perspiring skin, his lips on hers, her silk-smooth palms touching him. I release her palm from mine, imagining the feel of his skin in it rather than mine. Her dress blows up in the familiar yet unexpected gust of air from the opposite platform, she shrieks, face creases into that beautiful smile. And I laugh along, forgetting his possessive hands and masculine strength as we board the escalator together, her bright eyes studying me as intently as mine watch her.

Yes
My eyes glaze over as I stare blankly into the computer screen. I've been here for an hour now, the new word document I started this morning still only contains the vague title of the assigned essay. She sits beside me, biting her nails and swaying in her swivel chair. My eyes break away from the moniter for a brief moment to rest on her petite toes as they breathe freely in her new sandals. She doesn't notice her phone flashing, so I pick it up. One new message; him. I read the text, her eyes are still fixed on the ceiling, counting the multiple spot lights.
'I can still smell you on my sheets. Come round later?' reads the succint message.
My thumb dances around the keyboard as I deliberate showing her the message... It navigates the options menu until 'delete' is stumbled upon.
'Delete message?'
'Yes,' I nudge the handset across the table to her, she smiles ignorantly.

Elation
Sitting in her living room, my eyes flutter thoughtlessly through the pages of one of the many glossy magazines dotted around the house. She paints her toe nails, brow furrowed in concentration ensuring each little piggy is as perfectly polished as the last. Without looking up, she muses, "he's been really off with me lately. I text him a couple times today with no response - he usually replies straight away..."
I look up briefly to check whether her eyes have risen from her perilous task, and lower mine once again when I realise they haven't. Of course it's my fault that he's been 'off' with her, but she can't be too bothered.
"I might try calling him later," her forehead creases into slight frustration as a spot of the red varnish lands on her toe rather than the nail.
"Don't do that!" She looks up now, bemused. I continue, "well, if he's playing hard-to-get, you don't want to be too easy."
"I suppose you're right," she agrees, screwing the top back onto the half-empty nail varnish bottle, "he'll need me before I need him."
"Exactly," I smile and nod my head slightly. If I could keep this up perhaps I'd never have to think of them together again.
Her phone flashes and this time she notices, picks it up and grins elatedly. Time for plan B - whatever that is.

Morning
The hairs on my legs prick up as I stand at the bus stop, sheltering from the constant onslaught of icy rain. My throat scratches, eyes sting vengefully at having to be open so early in the morning. I had only managed to catch a few hours sleep, my mind over-active with ideas for sabotage. I must have fallen asleep mid-plan, as I awoke, face lying on my keyboard, his facebook page on the screen. An idea enters my mind then, on remembering his model good-looks and sheepish yet charming demeanour. If I were successful and she found out, she'd never speak to him again. A devilish smile crosses my lips, eyes brighten as my bus comes into view. Today looks promising.

Corpse
The sound of her laugh is excruciating. Her dark eyes gather beautiful lines on their outermost corners as her face creases with the force of her large smile. Sitting beside one another on her bed, watching an episode of Friends we must have seen respectively about forty times before; I smile, not at the show, but at her child-like amusement.
"Hold my feet?" she asks, "They're freezing!"
So I do, and we sit in comfortable silence, smiling intermittently at the television, until her eyelids grow heavy, and gently close; and I am left alone with Joey Tribbiani, her graceful corpse-like figure, and her mobile phone. I reach over carefully to lift it from her lap, and feel the warmth of her skin through the light cover. Her chest rises and falls rhythmically, silent breath filters out of her full lips, eyes remain closed. As I lift the handset with my right hand, my left rises to balance the phone, but as it does so, my fingernails graze the sole of her foot and her lips morph into a smile, those lines appear again at the corner of her eyes.
"Don't tickle me!" she kicks the uppermost part of my inner thigh, and is suddenly awake again.
She grabs her phone, and checks for messages. Plan B shall have to wait another day.

Timid
I smile shyly at him across the counter of the cafe where he works. He greets me warmly, recognises me as "Isobel's friend" and takes my order quite nonchalantly. I stare at him longingly and smile over-enthusiastically, but he doesn't seem to notice, just smiles that dumb, good-looking-guy smile and walks away. Ironically, Isobel would know just what to do in this situation. I twirl my frizzy hair around my right index finger, and cringe as I spot myself in the mirror behind his head, from that distance he's unable to see my chipped purple nail varnish, but he'd be able to decipher my stupid-but-sultry expression a mile off. I stop with the twirling. He walks over to my table, glass of coke in hand. Last chance to be sexy... I lean over the table and squeeze my shoulders together in order to push my breasts inwards, creating an undeniably huge cleavage. His eyes are averted for a moment from the task at hand. Consequently, as he places the over-filled glass of coke on the table, his hand is surprisingly unstable; the three ice cubes bob atop the brown liquid, and half of the drink is spilled perilously close to my ivory chest. I smile reassuringly in response to his flushed cheeks as he wipes the coke from the table.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry..." he stumbles over his words, "I was a little distracted."
He shakes his head apologetically, as if trying to banish images of me from his timid mind. It worked.

Pierce
Her usually-olive cheeks blush pink as he whispers indecipherable sweet nothings in her ear. Her smile is so genuine, so happy as he continues whispering, mouth buried in her wavy hair, his eyes look up and find me. I fight my natural reaction of avoiding eye contact out of self-consciousness, and embrace his glare. He doesn't look away, and a small smile tickles my lips, turning the corners of my mouth upwards, but I try to control it in an attempt to maintain my sultry-seductress vibe. She giggles then and looks up to find me staring.
"Stop perving, Jas - go and find your own boyfriend, 'cause you're not having mine!" she squeezes his hand tightly then, and they fall into an embrace.
I turn away, but am still able to hear them, the sound of their pouting lips meeting, his hushed tones and her besotted giggle once more. My eyes focus on my own feet, clad in my trademark 'lesbian boot' Doc Martins, scuffed morosely at the toe. Kissing sounds pierce my ears. My eyes squint harder as they study the grey paving stones beneath me. I lift my right foot with the intention to walk further down the street, away from their love-fest, until I hear his deadpan voice speak loudly enough for me to hear, "you should ask your friend to join us. She's pretty hot for a d***."