On mythical beasts and drives to nowhere…

In the morning, I play hookey and Red and I gaze at each other sideways, across pancakes and eggs. She reads my horoscope, and I find out that I am a Libra, a Leo rising, with my sun in Capricorn and my moon in Gemini. (As I write this she tells me this is all completely wrong) I wonder what else I can learn from her, her patient intuition. We decide to take the scenic route to the mall and pass monasteries, strange words plotted in soil, and abandoned trains and rusted factories. It is a wasteland of synthesized desire and smelly things and we hate and lust for it over smoothies. We lean on each other and we are tender. Our aftercare is not limited to the bedroom. She tells me,

“We are like mythical beasts,” and I roar and burrow deeper.

We’re exhausted but she holds my hand most of the ride home and I close my eyes because she knows the way.

I have worn a bandana all weekend and as we arrive in the house, I strip down to this and a pair of boxers and draw us a bath while I prepare steak frites. She sinks in and I can see and feel all of her muscles relax, their taut lines slack and curved as the water distorts her. She sips whiskey, I marvel at the steam rising off her skin, the hiss of air with each sip punctuating Beck on the radio. I join her and nestle in between her legs. I feel weighty and indulgent in the best, most beautiful way and I don’t want it to ever end, the water to ever cool on my back. I want to run and run and go with her until we leave our organs behind I want to choke on her laughter inhale the vibration of her body rest unfettered undeterred and gulp down sunnyside eggs in the shadow of the sun. I satisfy myself watching her, and soon, I am inside.

The water splashes over the sides and runs down my face. I am experiencing the smallest of drownings when I dive down to lap at her clit, each lick a swallow of water and soul. I dive underneath and suck at her skin. The water is hot, her skin is hotter, the blood moving and ebbing underneath the skin. When we fuck, it is like my movement is concentrated in hers, my limbs and feet still and chilled and the slick fuck of deep penetration is heavy on my tongue and behind my eyes.

She dreams of protection written in snow.

I dream of boulders and attacks from above.

We both drink from a mutual tumbler of black coffee, because my mug is dirty, coffee “black as midnight on a moonless night” and peek outside after our sweaty, sweet fuck while the world moves erratically.

Overnight, flowers have bloomed.

-C.

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