detached

Why am I telling this story backwards? Because I can. Because I need some kind of device to keep me writing at all.

(Sorry for lack of spaces between sentences, Blogger just keeps swallowing them and I can't figure out why

Afterwards, we sit side by side on another couch. His one hand is on my legs again, below my skirt. I finger the cold metal of his bracelet, complimenting him on it. He tells me where he got it from.

There are only a few minutes left to sit like this.

“It is too bad, you know…” I say, starting off brazen and losing ground fast, “…that we are all about the… pure.. fucking.”

“Well,” I hesitate, “at least, has always been like that for me, from the beginning…”

There is nostalgia in my voice and it embarrasses me.

“Yes, I know.” he mumbles. “It’s just.. something more intense …”

Neither of us bothers to finish our thoughts. He says it might not be insurmountable yet. It is too soon to decide.

I talk about my parents, about how they want me to leave here, want me to ‘find someone’. I’m not sure why this is what I bring up.

He says the pressure must be difficult but I shrug it off. I say I am used to it. I am. There is nothing more to say about it.

I know that once the excitement fades, the bitter after-taste of dissatisfaction awaits me. I do not actually see that there is any hope that we will ‘surmount’ this.

It doesn’t seem to matter right then. The flush of our bodies’ orgasms holds us siege, forced into relaxation.

I trail the icy braid of his bracelet with my scented fingers, round and round.