Thursday, August 27, 2009

Not Reading

I am over him - my legs pinning his own in one of the awkward

positions that cars force them in. He places his hand shyly

on my haunches and I turn to him, his eyes - behind his thin frames -

the only light in the coal-color of night and I snatch off his baseball cap

and top myself off with it. He only stares at me, the way you would

something unfamiliar. I lean my head on the crook of his neck, I want him

to feel that I want him, though I don't. He makes no more moves. (my skin

under his palm. warm. the whiteness of the windows. stubbled legs. toughness

of clothes.) I reach for his hand, slipping my long fingers

between his. I admire our hands together, or maybe just my own. I wish

he would place a finger or two between my legs instead. "You know,

I really like you," he whispers on my neck and I squeeze his hand.

"I like you too," I soothe back; meanwhile my vagina sighs.

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