My first time was on my 16th birthday. You were not my first, but my second. We were neighbors. I had known you since middle school, and we had done other things, so choosing you was inevitable, natural.

I trusted you. I trusted you with the panes for the windows to my soul. I was, every time, vulnerable with you, depending on you, giving you the chance to make me better – expecting you to make me better. And you did not disappoint me. In that whole year before I went away, you did not disappoint me.

We took a break when I went to university. I found someone else I could trust during my four years. I also had an encounter with someone on 5th Avenue; but during winter and summer breaks, I always came back to you. Our rendezvous were quick but good. You were always there. I never doubted you.

We got back together when I returned home, but I cheated on you once last summer. I thought nothing of it until it was over. I felt guilty, but not really – because it was good. Afterwards, I looked good. I felt good. You did not mean to, but you messed me up last year. You rushed through me, and I am still, today, dealing with the repercussions.

You jacked up my eyebrows, Kent! The ends thinned out. The shape, wrecked. I used to go out many a time with a bare face. These days, I cannot go out without at least a fill. Do you know how difficult it is to find a good and trustworthy eyebrow specialist?! Nearly impossible. I returned to last summer’s fling, Marisa, and she nursed my eyebrows to life-support. Now, Carrie is my new specialist who’s helping piece my brows back together. In short, I love you, Kent, but you are not doing my eyebrows anymore.

Fondly,

Nia

P.S. I’ma still come through for a mani/pedi, though.