Teardrops are a collection of short, slightly sad stories (but remember, there are tears of joy and of love), that exist for a brief moment before they are wiped, and shed every Sunday. Or when they are ready, whichever comes last...

It is, it is not

by Antheros

“It's her, dude.”

“It's not.”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, it is not.”

“It is.”

We had blown up the picture we had downloaded to the full size of the screen. I tried to look at her face, as difficult as it was to take my eyes away from the other parts of her body. I had to find an argument. The woman in the picture was not Natie.

“No, it isn't. Look at her face!”

“I'm looking. It's her.”

“Her nose is not like that.”

“Dude, look at her hair! It's her!”

“Why, just because it is blonde?”

“Blonde, right length... And not a real blonde.”

“You can't tell. She's wearing panties.”

“Practically on her mid thighs.”

“But her hand is on the way.”

“Come on, you've never seen Natie naked and yet you know she's not a real blonde. Look at her eyebrows. The hair roots. The hair tone. That is fake blonde.”

“Her nose is different.”

“Come on, look at her tits!”

“Have you seen Natie's tits?”



“That day at the beach!”


“All day long!”

“Oh, but you haven't seen them out of the bikini.”

“No, but...”

“But nothing. Bikinis change the shape of tits.”

“The size is right.”

“You can't be sure.”

“I can, and it's also the size of your girlfriend's.”

“How would you know that?”

“Chill out! I have seen her in a bikini too.”

“Watch out, dude,” I said warningly.

“It is her.”

“No way it's her.”


“We'll get nowhere with this discussion, dude.”

“Maybe you should ask her,” Bruce said.

“What? No way!”

“Why not?”

“You can't just ask a girl that! `Hey, is this naked chick you?' ”

“Be smooth. Maybe she'll let you fuck her.”

“You do that! I have a girlfriend. And you are the one who thinks it's her.”

“It is.”

“Believe what you want, dude. I'll go see my girlfriend while you jack off to this pic. And it is her.”

“It is not.”

I left Bruce there, looking at the damn picture. A few days later he arrived with a big stupid smile on his face.

“You know,” he said, “you were right.”

“About what?”

“The picture. It wasn't Natie.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

He took a small digital camera out of his pocket, pointing at the small screen. “Her breasts are different, she has this spot on the left one, and there's this tattoo which she said she got years ago.” I could barely breathe, looking at Natie completely naked, spread eagled on a bed, with a fuck-me-now face that could give me a hard on by itself. Bruce pulled it from my view after a couple seconds.

“I guess you're really proud you won the bet,” he said, dropping the camera into his pocket. “I'll pay you a beer later, now I'm kind of late for another shooting.”

02 Oct 2005
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