We are both twelve, sitting cross-legged in the kitchen,

Our hands stifling the giggles that threaten to shatter the thick midnight silence.

We are both twelve, bony-kneed and starry-eyed

With watercolors scattered all around as she whispers a suggestion of a game.

We are both twelve, and she lifts up her shirt

Hands grasping at her stomach as she tries to see how much skin she can gather.

(She calls it fat.)

We are both twelve, and she grins over at me,

Eyes bold as she dares me, little more than a twig, to beat the fistful of belly she holds.

We are both twelve, and I lift up my shirt

Fingers searching for skin to pry up, belly fat I do not have escaping my vain attempts.

We are both twelve, and know I can't beat her.

I am too small, too thin, to deliver up more than a pinch of flesh; her head tilts back in laughter.

(She calls me perfect.)

We are twenty years old, and have since parted ways.

Still, I smile as I lift my shirt, fingers finding the smooth skin, bunching it together;

I would beat her.