The space between
He pulled his jeans over his boxers. She always wondered why men did that. Wear boxers under their jeans. Didn’t the cloth bunch up and irritate them? His jeans were still too loose despite the thick scrunched up elastic adding corpulence around his waist. He was too thin. She could still feel the dull pain in her chest from his ribs digging into her when they’d fucked ten minutes ago. She tried to blow smoke rings as she watched him. Not that she ever could. He wanted to go out for lunch. She didn’t. Her inner thighs hurt from the extreme stretching. He always wanted it wide and deep. God, I’m so deep. Wider, wider babe. Just like the space between them.
Girl, you’re gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time..
She was exhausted as well. She always wondered why though. Not that she wasn’t proactive mind you. She loved getting on top. But he didn’t. So this time, missionary it was. But just lying there getting stabbed repeatedly in her solar plexus had left her panting like her contractions were 10 seconds apart. She also realized that she couldn’t really breathe. She’d always liked the idea of it. Feel the lung crushing weight of a man lying spent on top of her. She tried matching her exhalations with his inhalations. With her eyes closed she had a mental visual of what their chests jammed together must look like right now. There wasn’t a sliver of air between their skins. They were vacuum sealed together like that levi’s logo on the label of her jeans that even two horses in opposing directions couldn’t pry apart. It was to illustrate the strength of the rivets on the jeans. She knew that. She wondered if he knew. He was wearing Levi’s too. Or were they Lee? If she asked him now his breathing would become more irregular with him talking. Not that he was breathing regularly at all. His smokers cough which he displayed with surprisingly regular intervals in the crook of her neck had completely fucked up the overall breathing scheme. She would just have to wait.
Though lovers be lost. Love shalt not. And death shall have no dominion.
Looking beyond his shoulder finally gave her a chance to see her surroundings. Plush white duvet, plush white walls, plush white carpet, plus white man in his plus white shirt with all buttons open only to reveal more plush white epidermis. She looked at herself. They hadn’t even undressed properly. Black halter top, black lace panties which she hurriedly pulled on, black Aldo patent pumps, black smudged kohl, long black hair, dusky skin. She clearly did not fit into this heavenly intimidating scenario. I love you, his hand gently grazing her cheek as she pretended to drift off to sleep. She always closed her eyes in situations where she didn’t have an answer. Not that he had posed a question. When awake and standing it looked like a perfunctory deep thinking pause. Today it was more convenient. He packed his suitcase with her watching every now and then when his back was turned to her. She didn’t want to see him go. She would continue to sleep. Fall fast asleep. Hard asleep. Sleep the dreamless sleep of the blessed, the blessed sleep of the dead and pretend the last four months had never happened.