The summer my teacher didn’t kiss me was set to a soundtrack of show tunes and The Shins, the whisper of smoke in my ears as he taught me how to breathe it. "Don't cough," he instructed, the pads of his fingers on the hollow of my neck, the whites of his eyes glowing gold beneath the pendulum of light suspended from the ceiling, the breath between us more intoxicating than the drugs. The boundaries were blurred, I knew that. He was mine to lose, I believed that. But he had better students, and I forgot to account for that.
Chelsey Pippin Mizzi is a writer and tarot reader based in Avignon, France. Instagram: @pipcardstarot Substack: The French Dispatch