Dream Girl
A short story
“What are you?” You did not want to ask. But you had to. She had individual control of the pilomotor reflex on her skin, as your hand traced down her chest.
She props herself up on her arms.
Oh no. She was prepared for this question.
She knows exactly what she is.
“Do you care?”
“… No.”
You kiss her, as she reciprocates. She is warm.
Warm is enough. Cold is a terrible thing.