We meet in the hotel bar. It’s late, and our conversation drifts toward hope and longing. Let’s go, I say. I touch her. You’ll do, she says.
Tagged: Sex (778)
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Our words convey emotion, an inner life made public with each utterance, every sound we make. So when she finally says, Wow, I feel complete.
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I pulled her onto our bed and she said, The kids, and then she said, No really, and then I said, Don’t give me another reason to resent them.
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We lie entwined, glowing, denouement as discovery. I used to pick my nose, I say. I don’t really know why. She sticks her finger in my nose.
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He opens his eyes. The morning light colors the room. It’s too early, he thinks. Then he says so. You’re supposed to like this, she mumbles.
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The end came. Quickly. Inevitably. She hurried out, and didn’t look at me. She couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. I hadn’t even shown her my pet turtle.
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I told her how I liked to use salad dressing. She called me a pervert. A week later she showed up at my work and said, I’m partial to Ranch.
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She grunts and gets out of bed. He sees the complaint forming on her lips. He says, I never said I was perfect. She says, You did yesterday.
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That was fun but not life changing, she says. So he downsizes his own modest expectations. And lumbers toward a conclusion. And finds peace.
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She waits for me at the corner. You are the slowest guy I know, she sighs. We listen to birdsong. And sometimes it pays off for you, I reply.
