It was October, but Margo was still wearing short summer skirts. Margo rode past me on her bike everyday as I walked to school. The smell of her peony perfume wafting behind her and filling my nose as I inhale. Her long golden hair shines in the sun as it flows behind her. Her short skirts are just one of the statement pieces of her wardrobe. People talk and say the length makes her a whore, but I know she’s not wearing it for them, she’s wearing it for her. She wears it because she knows she looks good. Really, she likes the attention, she likes being the topic of their boring conversations. I wave as she passes and she sends me a small smile, something barely noticeable but sends a burst of heat to my chest. If you couldn’t tell, I’m in love with Margo.