You weren’t trying to get dolled up for the santos, just threw on some denim shorts and a tank top that clung more than it hung. Your hair was pulled into two high pigtails, slicked to perfection, flipped at the ends, cute. Not scandalous.

And your gum? Pink, loud, obnoxious. Pop. You smacked it like you was keeping tempo with your heartbeat. When Oscar pulled up outside your house in the impala the rumble of the engine was already louder than he was. He took one look at you—one, just flicked his eyes over you once, up then down, his jaw tight.

He gripped the wheel too tight, thumb tapping the cracked leather, nostrils flaring.“Take them out.” “Huh?” you blinked, still chewing. “The pigtails. Take. Them. Out.”

He didn’t care to give you time to answer—you took too long in his mind— just reached over and yanked, one of the pigtails curled around his knuckle. You winced, more so from shock, half-ready to laugh it off until he started talking again, your hands flew up to steady yourself. “You want them thinking you a little girl or a bitch with handlebars?”

He let go, hating how harsh it came out. He brushed a hand over the back of your neck, trying to soothe your startle. “They don’t see ‘cute’ they don’t see you how i do. They see something to grab while they hit.”