Alive in the Fights (II)

Perfection in two parts. After she fucked me, I took her from behind. My palms are smooth, my feet uncalloused. My idea of an honest day’s work is usually one in front of a computer, but I’ll roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty for her any time.

She is arched for me, my Man Ray, my muse, my taut rib violin to play and coo for, and I sink deeply inside of her. This intimacy is not strange, we have danced this dance before, but she is yielding and giving herself to me in a way that causes deliberation. I want to take her slowly before she hits the ground running and my plane soars into the air, and I move inside of her with the utmost of precision. Faster, sweeter, as I feel her arch and wetter inside, creamy and oozing down her thighs and onto the tail of my shirt. Tattersal cleans, silk absorbs. She’s as much a part of me as my cufflinks and collarbone bruises. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I come to dinner with my shirt tucked in, millimeters away from the red welts she raised on my thighs and the stains and sweet intoxication of her pussy on my lips and fingers.

We eat and laugh and drink and sink into one another. I slip up and touch her thigh. I may have looked a hair too long or intensely, but nobody really cares. It’s David Bowie’s birthday so we listen to David Bowie all day. After dinner, after Honey Boo Boo and multiple glasses of wine and sinking into the bed, we dance to Life on Mars on the bed, rocking back and forth, a head where the other’s shoulder begins, arms on arms on legs on ankles. The girl with the mousey hair and the big eyes touches Ziggy’s scrawled makeup. It is not a small affair, even in the scheme of all things considered.

Our love is big and it is perfect, booming underneath the covers and through layers of sweatshirts and eyeliner and nail polish. In a bag by the bed is a green velvet blazer and I shall wear it to Morocco with you, my dear. I exhale and her fist hits my stomach, glassy-lidded eyes looking toward the sky and she moves over me. She seals my ear over her chest, and all I can hear is her heart. The world is muffled beneath her, all but for the rhythmic thrum of consistency and the course of the thousands and millions of molecules that construct such beauty. We are a work in progress, carried the miles we travel and haul our organs to this place, and I am lucky to be sharing this space and this era with such a timeless femme fatale.

Sometimes she lifts her hand to explode in my side, a punctuated firework of parsimonious sensation. I am enveloped by her warmth, her life and my breath. The violence is lulled by the calm surrounding it, and I feel safe. I am receiving what I need. She was right, I needed a change of scenery. My life so distantly defined by carefully curated tchotchkes is packed away and sealed in suitcases dusting and rusting in the halls of an apartment I’ll never see again. Having something warm to put a smile on my face is all that I needed to slip away from myself for a while.

She cries, her eyes wrinkled and wrenched in silent tears at the thought of a small extinguishing of her beauty. Death alarms her, fires and nuclear apocalypse deter her and absolve her from responsibility and the mundane. Is there life on Mars? What if my eggs die from the extreme heat? I don’t want my kids to die, she says, and I hold her. She is small and all grown up and hurting. I never, ever want her to hurt like this. The climate change and distance can come at me. I’ll be waiting for them with my teeth bared. She is my papillon, my brightly-colored scarf, my accordionist on an empty bus, my powerful, aching jaw and beating heart and I will not stand for the cruelty of the indifferent world.

That being said, we both like the name Quinn.

Perhaps there is no true indifference when we take the reigns.

Four hours slip by like one. Before I know it, the Metro is closing and I run to catch the last train home, bidding the family and my sweet, warm love good night and farewell for now, forever. The Connection I will see in the morning, the rest of them, who can say? I am drunk and dizzy on the prospect of travel and love and sex and the other sweet releases life provides and I grin the whole way home.

-C.

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